Wargs to Live By
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: AU: Ever wanted a Boromance that actually focuses on Boromir? And the rest of the fellowship in a context besides what they think of the Sue? One that doesn't put itself above the whole quest thing? We've got that and Wargs. Written with tongue in cheek.
1. Prologue: The Road to Rivendell

Author's Notes and Disclaimer: It all belongs to Tolkien, except the bad parts. Most of those belong to PJ, but the really bad foul-ups and the insane mini-rant (which you may skip; you are by no means my captive audience, right? -Insert evil laughter- ) are my own. That's all I'm claiming; not Boromir, not Gimli, not the general concept of the Wargs, and you can keep your blonde elf-boy, you slavering fangirl, you.

The PPC (which belongs to the master authors Jay and Acacia, by the way, other good stuff which I have no right to claim and therefore do not do so but you ought to check out for a good laugh) is probably going to shoot me, stuff me, and hang me in their office for saying this, but I don't mind Mary Sues. If you like blue hair, silver-violet eyes, and a name that's five or more syllables in length without any sign of a breathing space, feel free to write about it. I may not read it, but it's good practice for a career in the anime genre. It's got to be better than any of the current TV shows if it features Frodo, no?

Which brings me to what really does get my goat about the archetypical Mary Sue story: way-out-of-character-ness, also known as +divide by lembas error+ or OOC. Show me a typical 10th member romance and I'll show you a dwarf who acts like a serious loser, an insane misogynist criminal just waiting for his chance to screw up the Fellowship, and an elf that exists merely for a woman's pleasure, yet somehow has not yet been claimed in three thousand years. What, there actually are four male hobbits, one of whom does little but angst, and a wizard in it, besides a ranger and the aforementioned OOC trio? This is an exceptionally good one.

At which point our antihero Warg enters the scene. Is it possible to write a romantic AU and still keep true to the spirit of Tolkien? _Nyaah_, she thinks, but she'll try one anyway. It might help her figure out just how one stays true to the master, if she gets enough purists flaming her. So please, precious, hit that silly little button in the bottom corner and practice your best orc swearses, gollum.

In short, (if I'm ever short,) I don't take my works or myself too seriously, but give me a shout out if I've crossed the lines of AU into Evil! OOC Land. I rather like fixing this stuff.

Edit: Thanks to the fine folks at Livejournal's OCAnalysis, I've decided to change the mother's name. Not a big thing, but it does make it a wee bit closer to canon. Please tell me if I missed a spot.

* * *

Pausing along her journey down the half-remembered road, Celenel looked down in bemused wonder at her son as he toddled alongside the path, stopping to examine the occasional leaf that caught his eye. His thumb remained firmly in his mouth as he brought such a weed up to his lightly tanned, youthful face. Watching this innocent discovery, she was surprised as ever at how such a young boy could mean so much to so many. Aragorn was her son, her heir, and now her only living family member. An alien, frightening thought to a woman who had been raised to value her clan above all else. Both of her parents had died in their homeland, not long after the birth of their grandson. Aragorn was already assuming the aloof attitude of his forefathers around strangers, but to his mother and those that the little boy recognized as friends he was ever loving and affable. He was so similar to his father, in both looks and manner, Celenel mused as she watched her little one attempting to hone his nascent woodsman's skills with indeterminate success.

Arathorn and Celenel had had a cold, mostly unloving marriage, as he had never forgiven her for standing in the way of matrimony to his beloved, if only passively. Neither had truly wanted the wedding, but clan politics had intervened in the paths where young hearts would tread. Her father had been kind and well meaning, if a little distant from her and her mother, but his steadfastness had proved his downfall more than once. First Thorongil had earned the mistrust of the Stewards of Gondor by hinting a little too bluntly at the existence of a family with a truer claim to the Southern throne than even Anarion's unbroken line might have had to offer. But the true fracture of his family had come when Thorongil proposed an unexpected solution to his rival Arador's problem. Arador had protested that his son Arathorn was wooing a girl, named Gilraen, who was much too young for the heir of Isildur's house. Celenel was in actuality not much older than Gilraen, but her stronger lineage had made her considered marriageable material, by Arador's standards at least.

Celenel had known from the beginning that her marriage was destined to be an unloving one. She still had had the wanderlust native to her race pulsing through her blood when her father had begun pressing her to wed. Up until the very day she had left Arnor, she knew Gilraen was the one who rightly deserved her place. Gilraen had known it, too. The younger woman had never explicitly objected after the engagement was announced, but Celenel felt Arathorn would still be alive if it had been his beloved he were returning to, instead of her. The pain and silent accusation in Gilraen's eyes told her that the younger woman privately summarized as much. But Arathorn's mother's pleas upon her son and his lover's behalf and Celenel's wariness toward the wedding had come to nothing against the pact of a stubborn pair of chieftains who believed they had at last found a way to unite the old royal bloodlines. Despite their frigid terms of acquaintance, Celenel could not help but regret her late husband's death. Arathorn had given her their son, and was willing to show the love that Aragorn merited, if not his mother. That love of her son counted far with Celenel, and no man, no matter how gruff and standoffish, deserved to be killed by Wargs.

And yet the awful, but not unthinkable, had occurred. A ranger's widow and her son would be cared for by their clan, but neither the O'Palansüls nor Arathorn's kin had the resources to spare for a healer who was more streetwise than woods-sensible and a youngster who would not be able to add to the hunt for several years yet. While Celenel had felt comfortable in her parents' homeland, they were too poor to keep that comfort. Royal blood did not guarantee riches, nor even a regular meal and a roof. Her clansmen were kind to her, as she was by technicality chieftain, but Celenel had seen hidden relived smiles on more than a few faces when the wandering wizard Gandalf had offered them shelter in Rivendell. It was the same in every culture. People wanted knowledge of a king; the thought that there would be an heir to the throne was comforting, but they did not want their ruler in their everyday lives.

Thankfully, Gandalf had taken mercy upon the newly widowed healer and her son. Celenel was unsure of how far to trust the elves, but any way to remove herself and Aragorn from that forest filled with its painful, bittersweet memories was more than welcome. She picked up the young child as Aragorn reached out to her, presenting the unfamiliar plant to the healer for judgment. Holding her son tightly to her breast, Celenel turned her steps once more to their future in Rivendell, the home of the elves.


	2. Prologue: Straying to the Edge

A/N: Lest this story leave one with an impression of love always occurring at first sight, a small added prequel on the first meeting of a favorite canon couple. Not mine, of course.

Thanks to Fire for pointing out my history issues. They should hopefully be fixed.

* * *

"What type of stray have you picked up this time, Father?" Arwen straightened her dress as she came in from her walk in the forest. Lord Elrond's daughter had but recently returned from her maternal grandmother's home in Lothlorien, and her deep attachment to the forests still showed itself in her frequent excursions into the fringes of Mirkwood. She reminded Elrond very much of her mother in this regard; Celebrian had been just as fond of the woodlands before she had set sail for the Gray Havens.

"What do you mean, Arwen?" he asked his daughter. "None of my guests are exactly the type to be found at the side of the street."

"No, that shameless puppy that calls himself Isildur's heir was trying to follow me home from the woods." She hung her woolen cloak up to dry and tossed back her long, dark hair. "I do believe he was attempting to seduce me."

Despite the righteous fire in her eyes, the elf lord indulged in a small round of teasing. "Can you really blame the boy, Arwen Evenstar? You're the most beautiful woman Estel has ever seen, the prettiest any of us has seen in quite some time." Elrond kissed his beloved daughter on the cheek, but his thoughts were not so irreverent as the casual observer might infer from his actions. Gandalf had warned Elrond that Aragorn would fall for Arwen at first sight, and that she might fall for him as well. That was why the elf had encouraged his daughter's visits to Lothlorien, in hopes that her heart would not be torn in two.

Aragorn, or Estel, as he was known in Rivendell to prevent enemy spies from finding Isildur's heir, was a good lad; Elrond had practically raised him as a son after his mother's disappearance and was very fond of the boy now poised on the verge of manhood. Yet the memory of Isildur's failure, nigh on three thousand years ago, was still fresh in the long-lived elf's mind. Estel had yet to prove himself. Would he reclaim the throne of Gondor and become a leader of men, or would Aragorn's resolve weaken in the face of temptation, as his ancestor's had? Elrond could not give the youth his heartfelt consent to court his youngest child and only daughter until Isildur's heir had proven himself worthy.

Elrond had always felt closer to Arwen, especially after her mother's passing, than to his sons, and would not quickly separate from her. Yet the elf knew he would not remain in Rivendell forever. Already he could feel the call of the sea and the Gray Havens across the ocean in his bones. He sensed it would not be too many years yet before he was forced to heed that call. His sons would travel with him, of course. He had been even surer of Arwen's accompaniment, until Gandalf had warned him of this strange twist of fate. How ironic, that this boy that the elf had welcomed into his household should prove Elrond's undoing.

"I shall have a word with Estel, don't you worry," he reassured his daughter.

"I should certainly hope so, father." Arwen contented herself with this, brushing away with a light kiss upon his cheek.

The opportunity for such a word came quickly. Aragorn stood outside in the gardens, his dark gray eyes wide with awe. "How long have you been hiding her, Lord Elrond?" the young man asked.

"I didn't. Arwen has been staying with her mother's family in Lothlorien these last two decades," the elf answered half-truthfully.

"Your daughter is amazing, my lord," the Dunedain said in hushed, reverent tones. "When you first told me about my history, I felt that no man could equal me. But when I saw her, I felt very common, indeed." He bowed his head ashamedly.

"You are human, Aragorn," Elrond reminded him firmly. "To her, you are common, and will remain so until you can prove yourself worthy of your heritage. You would have to claim the kingdom of your ancestors." The elf laid a conciliatory arm on the youth's back.

"You think I have a chance at winning her, then?" Estel was really taking this too far, but Elrond saw no reason for stopping him. Not then.

"When the king returns, and Sauron is banished to the Void, I will give you my blessings with her." The elf promised with tongue-in-cheek. Aragorn looked a bit crestfallen, but there was still a hint of hope in his eyes.

"I'll prove myself worthy, someday," he promised. "For both of you."

"Your resolve suits you. It does me proud, Aragorn. We shall see what shall come to pass." Elrond reassured him. The Lord of Rivendell walked a delicate line between protecting his daughter and bolstering his adoptive son's ego. Elrond could only hope that the love-struck light in Estel's eyes did not foreshadow him doing something stupid.


	3. Prologue: The Most Valuable Item

Author's Notes: The world is Tolkien's; I just play in it. Smack the little button in the corner if I'm screwing it up.

Fellowship? Mary Sue? (Yes, I warn you now, purists, she scored pretty high on the PPC litmus test.) Who said that a LotR romance had to include those in every chapter?

* * *

Tamithor son of Talerand the Rivermerchant did not consider himself arrogant, no matter what his neighbors might say. He was merely justifiably proud of himself and his family. Was it not only four generations ago that his great grandfather pushed his rickety cart through the streets of the first gate, his piteous advertisements for Anduin wares falling upon deaf ears? From this poor immigrant background, the family had striven its way up through the level of shopkeeper's assistant to at last becoming master merchants in their own right, with a comfy little shop at the edge of the second gate. By rights they had become fifth-gaters in society, at least, but Tamithor did not hold with false pretensions. It was just as well for him to live in the small apartment above the shop, and much more economically viable. Talerand had always taken great pride in their little, personally earned store, and the older Rivermerchant had instilled a similar pleasure in earned glory and financial success in his son. Tamithor had been taught to price the wares and watch his moneybag since he was tall enough to toddle about the small shop. Like his forefathers, he prided himself on a quick mind and a careful eye.

It was this eye that had first alerted him to the presence of what would prove to be the most valuable item to enter his shop during his apprenticeship to his father. She would not have appeared like much to anyone else at first glance, this dark-haired waif who blew in with the chill spring wind. Tall and gray-eyed, she was just a bit too thin, dark, and angular to be considered pretty by Gondorian standards, but something about those haunted, alluring smoky eyes made her stand out from amongst the other foreign wanderers who paused in their travels in the Rivermerchants' store. With no other customers during the afternoon lull, Talerand sent his son, just of late grown into manhood and old enough to start minding the shop by himself during his journeyman's phase, over to deal with the woman whilst he finished balancing the ledgers. Like any nervous businessman, Talerand trusted no one else with his finances, and was rumored to have squirreled away half his earnings until the day he died.

"Can I help you, mistress?" Tamithor walked up to the wild-eyed visitor. He regretted his choice of address once he noticed the ring upon her right hand. Nothing showy, but it looked like an antique, maybe even a signet. Her hair and clothes were in disarray, as if she had come straight from the hunt, but well tailored. He had probably doubly insulted her, if she was not only married, but someone's lady as well. Pity. Tamithor had hoped she was single. Not that he was particularly interested in getting married, especially to some Dunedain woman who just walked into his life without any warning, but there was just something about her that caught the young red-headed merchant's interest.

"Well," she paused as if just now noticing where she was. Her eyes darted about the shop as she smoothed her riding skirt, her hand lingering upon her stomach. That womb had carried a child once, Tamithor suddenly recognized. He hadn't been aware of it at first, due to her lean, tall frame, but there was a twinge of regret in her expressive gray eyes as she hesitated, as if she had lost a little one. "Have you seen a –" She bit off the end of her sentence, shaking her head.

"A what, lady?" he leaned forward attentively, catching the smell of wood-smoke and healer's simples upon her.

"Never mind," she said, lifting a thin-fingered hand as if to fan away the mist of a dream. "You would never believe it. I'm not sure I do, myself." She shook her black hair away from her face, unconsciously embellishing the drawn, worn look created by her thin, high cheekbones.

"Perhaps, and perhaps not, my lady. I have heard some wild tales in my time," Tamithor stated gallantly. He barely suppressed his sudden urge to kiss her hand, bowing over it and then letting go awkwardly with a discomfited pat. This clumsy display of chivalry really would not do, he thought with a sigh. At least his father had not witnessed it, as Talerand remained engrossed in the ledgers.

"What type of tales could you have heard in such a short time, master?" the dark-haired lady smiled condescendingly, but not uninterestedly. "Gondor is ever on the border of the Dark Lord's realm, but the White City cannot have changed that much since I last visited two years ago."

"These are stories that are best discussed over a good meal." Tamithor grasped wildly for a way to save the discussion. "If my lady would perhaps be willing to join me for dinner over at the Waning Moon's Haven at sunset tonight? It's the best inn this side of the third gate."

"Whom shall I ask for?" the woman's eyes softened at his flustered but hopeful round face. Tamithor realized that he had rather foolishly forgotten to give her his name, and he had not remembered to ask for hers. It was quick enough to remedy such a mistake, at least.

"Tamithor Rivermerchant, milady. And may I ask who I shall meet there?" he said, giving her the most charming smile he could muster.

"Celenel, of Clan O'Palansül, wife to the late Arathorn son of Arador." His suspicions had been correct, but Tamithor could not fully restrain a twinge of hope at "the late." Perhaps he had a chance with her yet. A chance for what, Tamithor could not truly say, but as tightfisted as his neighbors might call him, this would be one meal the young merchant would be happy to pay for.


	4. Awkward Introductions & Amazing Tricks

AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy... (Later chapters contain swearing and brief sensuality.)

Author's Notes: And at long last, we are introduced to our main original characters. (Warg: Yay! Any self-respecting purist: Boo!)

The POV rotates between three characters at this point. It's all told from third person omniscient, but it focuses on three groups until the council. You know what I mean. Just so you're not wondering why Frodo is suddenly dreaming of Minas Tirith while hanging out with the Wargs.

And yes, in advance, I know my timeline is screwed up, I'm working on finding a way to fix it. Once again, if you see any stupid spelling mistakes / continuity errors, feel free to flame me. My mini Balrog Bromire (Miss Cam gave him to us; he's ours, precious, even if none of the rest of this story is!) acts as my muse and beta, but he gets very hungry without a few good flames. And then he starts eating my plot bunnies, which makes writing a bit difficult. So please, save a bunny - hit the blue button!

* * *

She heard the horns ringing still. Tasana had managed to survive orc and wolf infested woods many times before, but this was the first time she had seen the great Wargs fight those that the human folk had traditionally assumed were their masters. But those loyal to the Dark Lord Sauron were not always loyal to one another.

Best to let the threats exterminate one another. Best to run away from the fray; far, far away, and then hide. Besides, the young woman had neither sword nor shield to defend herself with, only a paltry collection of hunting arrows in her quiver and her healer's knife. Any ranger with half an ounce of sense or self-preservation would have stayed as far away as possible from giant wolves and perverted orcs, given her meager resources. Even surrounded as she was by ground-level battle, a sane individual would have hunkered down in the thick branches and prayed to avoid the orcs' detection.

Considering her meager escape options, the youthful runaway privately admitted that said sane individual would have been better prepared. Certainly she was yet too impulsive to be considered fully sane by most. For a moment, the girl wondered if her great plan to run to the forest that had had offered her and her mother shelter since the younger woman's childhood was such a good one after all. Her father could be a rock-headed, stone-hearted troll at times, but surely he would be more reasonable than a pack of orcs and maddened wolves. Her father, at least, could be susceptible to bribes.

Listening with half an ear to the battle, she observed that the howls were getting stronger and the drums had stopped. Goblins' cries were few and far between. She found herself in a tree above the orcs' flight, aiming one of her preciously few arrows at their backs. She released and heard a sickening yet satisfying _thunk_ as the thin wooden shaft penetrated a goblin's black armor, too high for a wound to the heart, yet it slowed the twisted creature enough for the wolves to make short work of it. The rest of the orcs would not be attacking anytime soon.

Tasana waited until all of the goblins and their pursuers had passed, then climbed out of the tree. Removing her arrow from the ravaged body, then tossing it aside in disgust when she saw it was broken; she noticed one of the huge wolf carcasses was still moving, despite numerous wounds and a curved orc scimitar driven deep into its side.

"Shh… I'm not going to hurt you…. Lie still," she murmured softly, not quite sure why she was pulling out her medicine bag and canteen of boiled water. While she normally avoided obvious dangers like the bestial Wargs, she felt as if under the direction of something outside of time. She felt no fear in this creature's presence, or so she would tell herself later. This was obviously a lord among Wargs, yet this dark, vicious warrior wolf with a king's bearing and a mortal wound reminded her of nothing more than the spring puppies gamboling on a warm summer day. At any rate, the young woman had only one option left, if she was to survive this impetuous encounter. Tasana yanked out the sword, then applied a medicated bandage to the wound, mildly surprised that she had not lost a hand to either wolf nor poisoned orc blade – yet.

When she had finished, the fifteen-year-old healer looked up to find herself and her charge encircled by Wargs, the gigantic wolves that served as the war- mounts of orcs, according to all the old stories she had heard from her father. They were all yellow-eyed and fierce looking, all warily sizing her up with various expressions of hostility, hope, and befuddlement. Out of nowhere a large grizzled old matron of the pack pushed her way through the ring and dropped a fat white hare at Tasana's side. Then, after snapping at a growling youngster, the silvery Warg sat a few paces from the merchant's daughter turned woods-woman and the wolf's wounded mate.

Giving the wise old she wolf a half smile, Tasana cut a large chunk off the coney and offered it to the alpha male. He accepted the token with gusto, and his mate seemed to laugh and smile at the young healer as she fed him. At this unspoken signal, the rest of the wolves dispersed with barely a look back. Tasana fed the wolf lord until he went to sleep, then drank a small amount of water herself and picked off the last of the raw hare meat. She did not dare start a fire with the she-Warg monitoring her every move.

Tasana stood gingerly; keeping a concerned eye on the she-wolf that watched her lazily. Her peculiar feeling of objectiveness towards her surroundings did not extend to this strange silver Warg. The alpha female stretched, loosing a yawn that revealed yellowed canines as wide about the base as Tasana's thumb. The wolf howled and a pair of her underlings; both carrying chunks of venison, approached her; fawning and whining as they greeted their pack mistress. She welcomed them warmly, and through some complex vocalization that Tasana did not fully understand, indicated that the hunters should stay with their wounded leader.

Then she looked straight toward the human healer with an expression of full comprehension and wry indifference. The old pack mistress knew exactly what worried Tasana, and didn't really care about the impact of her power on the young woman. She seemed to dismiss the girl as easily as she had the other Wargs.

"Thank you, Wolf Mother. Care to join me?" Tasana curtsied before the Warg, who knocked the tall, lanky woods-woman off her feet with a disciplinary shove of her furry, well - muscled shoulder. _So the nobility of the forest is at least as indecipherable as the nobles of the White City, _Tasana thought to herself. She rolled over onto all fours, keeping her head below the alpha's grizzled gray muzzle. Tasana approached her without making eye contact; then made a whining noise and rubbed against the great she wolf's legs like a cat as the younger hunters had done.

The Warg was certainly dangerous, but she had seemed to accept Tasana, even about her wounded mate, until the human started to treat her as she would a lady of the city of her birth. At this wolf-like behavior, the old Warg positively shook with glee. After she thoroughly licked her apprentice wolf's face – a process Tasana didn't totally mind, despite breath that stunk of orc blood – the alpha female dashed toward the tree that held the woman's secret cache of clean water, dried food, and other equipment. Tasana could barely keep up with this seer who had unerringly led the human straight to her normal sleeping place.

She shimmied up the tree and brought down enough supplies to keep her and her patient comfortable for a few days at least: a warm woolen cloak and a heavier pair of worn and patched breeches, similar to the threadbare hand-me-downs she was currently wearing, that would keep her warm on cold nights without a fire. She also took a restocked medicine bag with plenty of the mint she had so dearly bargained for at the last market day the merchant's daughter had been to when she was back at home. There were things more important than peddler's prices on vegetables now, of course. Yet if she couldn't have a fire, Tasana at least knew how to mix a bit of the flavor into the water without one. That would help her stay awake and refreshed. She brought some of the old tatters of what had been her sleeping bag before an incident with a bear her first time alone in the South Woods for fresh bandages; grumbled over leaving her fire materials once more, then climbed down the tree with some of the dried berry cakes and an extra canteen of water in hand. Once again she followed this mysterious she wolf who fought orcs and knew her secrets.

0-0-0

The party had been long in the planning of festivities, tedious in the making of a guest list, and a bit of an annoyance in the constant visits of relatives, but it had all been worth it to see the look on good old Uncle Bilbo's face. It had hardly been a surprise party – it was impossible to hide all those pavilions being set up the Shire Commons – but not Bilbo, Bilbo's nephew, Frodo Baggins, nor Sam Gamgee, Frodo's best friend, had expected such a spectacular turnout for such a wonderful birthday party. The night was cool, but comfortable, fireworks sparkled and banged overhead, and even the presence of Bilbo's insufferable cousins, the Sackville-Bagginses, was ameliorated by that of Gandalf the Gray, the ancient wandering wizard who had gone with Frodo's uncle on his adventures so long ago.

Frodo lazily turned from his table, which was all but creaking under the weight of so much food. Normally, even the greatest feast of human proportions would have disappeared immediately in the presence of so many individuals, double quick considering the great majority of them were hobbits well known for their vast appetites. At least half the population of the Shire was attending the party celebrating Bilbo's one hundred and eleventh birthday. Yet even Frodo's teenage cousins, who were always eating, making trouble, or both, had not yet made a significant dent in the display of Bilbo's birthday party extravagance.

Not that Merridoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took hadn't been trying, Frodo smiled, catching sight of the youngsters up to their elbows in dishwater with Gandalf standing watch dourly over them. Lobellia Sackville-Baggins' raucous carping could be heard from across the party field, although fortunately for Frodo, her exact words were lost in the happier noise of the celebrations. The sour old hen looked as if she couldn't decide whose ears to twist first: Pippin, Merry, or Gandalf, so Lobellia had settled for gesturing wildly at a smoking, broken down tent that Frodo deduced to be the scene of the crime. From the mess of soot in their hair, Frodo assumed the mischievous pair had tried to light a few fireworks of their own. Although the younger Baggins was sure he never wanted to see another piece of food for the rest of his life, even should he live to be as old as Bilbo, he decided he ought to take pity upon the boys and bring them some fruit after Gandalf and Lobellia finished punishing them. Having to listen to Old Lady Stink-Bug, as Frodo and his friends had called her behind her back as children, prattle on like that was more punishment than anyone deserved. Pippin was staring longingly at Bilbo's birthday cake as he scrubbed plates, and better that they were given food than having Merry come up with some harebrained scheme to steal it.

Following Peregrin's gaze, Frodo silently began trying to count the candles once again. One hundred and eleven. It was hard for Frodo to believe his uncle; the only paternal figure he had ever known, was this old. He barely looked sixty, much less a hundred; as he stood atop a table to make the speech the crowd was heckling him for. It was not hard for the adopted hobbit to see his uncle as the adventurer the elder Baggins had been infamous for becoming, even at this fully seasoned age. Bilbo still appeared hale enough to accompany mysterious wizards or lost heirs to secret dwarven kingdoms who might approach him after the party for the aid of Bag End's most celebrated burglar.

"Today is my hundred and eleventh birthday! I hope you all are enjoying yourselves as thoroughly as I am!" he shouted above whistles and joyous cheers. "First of all, I wanted to tell you how immensely fond I am of you all. Eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such wonderful people. I don't know half of you as well as I should like and I don't like half as you as well as you deserve." Most of the clapping stopped as the party guests ruminated over Bilbo's last statement, trying to decide if this was a complement. "But unfortunately, my friends, I'm afraid my time with you has come to an end. Frodo shall come into his inheritance today. For I am leaving tonight. Immediately. Goodbye." With that, Bilbo slipped on the ring he had been toying with behind his back and disappeared utterly from view.


	5. Adventures and Squelched Drama

AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy... (Later chapters contain swearing and brief sensuality)

Author's Notes: Same two characters as last time. We'll get to the whole reason this is in the Boromir pull-down subcategory shortly enough, I promise. Also, look closely for a Nanny Ogg reference for all the Discworld fans out there.

There is nothing in the piece worth claiming. Tolkien owns Middle Earth, Terry P. owns the song about the stoic animal, and Jak is owned by fear.

* * *

The next fortnight passed much in the same way as the end of that day. The alpha female stayed with Tasana and the alpha male most of the time; roving for short excursions from whence she never failed to return with some small game animal that filled up the bellies of both healer and healing patient, despite the mediocre size of such kills. The other wolves began to visit more frequently: at first in ones and twos, then as Tasana began to recognize individuals and their alpha started to recover enough strength to stay awake longer and eat more, the whole pack seemed to appear at once. There were a good twenty Wargs all told: some pure white, others silver like their seeress, still others grizzled brown, but most were dark jet like the wounded male. They slowly welcomed Tasana into their midst, grudgingly accepting her right to the pack's respect. Though the young healer breached their etiquette several times, her camaraderie with their lady seer seemed to smooth over the woods-woman's difficulties enough that she avoided any serious consequences with the pack, at least; although she would have a long way yet to go before she earned the friendship of some of the more aloof pack members, including the young beta who had been the first to growl at her.

She was nowhere close to speaking the Warg tongue yet, but many of their expressions easily translated interspecies bounds. By the end of her time with the wolves, Tasana had learned that love and loyalty, tireless as the Wargs' run on a hunt, were shown to all the members of this pack. On the fifteenth day after she had foolishly run in the wrong direction during a battle, Tasana took the bandages off the wounds to find little more than a scar across the Warg's side. He got up to his feet, greeted his mate, and sounded a hunting howl. The rest of the pack picked it up, and with but a single glance in the healer's direction given by the she wolf; ran on light padded paws to the south. As the howls disappeared into the distance, Tasana heard a familiar voice calling from the north. "Tasi! Tasana Rivermerchant!"

"Stop your twittering, Jakinson, unless you want every orc, dragon, and wolf within twenty leagues to hear you," Tasana said, calculating her emergence from the trees for the most surprise. Her father's apprentice looked very shocked indeed as she vaulted onto the back of his horse wearing his old threadbare breeches.

"That's –that's the third time you've run away from home, Tasana. Your father won't be pleased if he sees you like this." Jak's face was turning white, but Tasana was willing to bet her dowry twice over that her father's possible wrath was much more of a cause of this young bean counter's blanched complexion than all the combined forces of the Blasted Lands of the east. Jak pretended to be unafraid of the old myths, but his master's occasional bouts of fiery temper were legendary enough. While Tamithor Rivermerchant's hair had grayed from its original flaming red, his emotions and old-fashioned values showed few signs of fading, and his uptight, effeminate apprentice was developing an even stricter sense of propriety under his tutelage.

"Then we'll stop by my cache. I have an old dress about there someplace. But first, I have a gift from a friend here I need to pick up." The scimitar lie in the center of the clearing, not far from where Tasana had pulled it loose from the lordly Warg's wound. The light streaming down through the forest canopy reflected peculiarly in her leaf green eyes as she picked up the poisoned orc blade and sealed her fate. She had become the queen of those who shall have no royalty in that instant: a lady among those who do not tolerate nobility. The Queen of Wargs was born, though she would not recognize her power for years yet to come. As if in a dream, Tasana raised the sword above her head. "I know this, the wolves, and this land. On these I swear, with the South Woods as my witness, I shall not be sold into marriage. No matter my father's wish or another man's will; this choice shall be my own." Her voice rose in power, and the sunlight glinting off the curved blade somehow made her look more like a warrior princess in exile than a runaway daughter of a merchant attempting to escape her upcoming marriage.

The only witness of this transformation was blind to its effect. Jak only shook his head and rode with her to the tree cache, insisting that he should be the one to climb up and get the dress, and then made her change behind a clump of bushes. She rode home sidesaddle; slightly afraid she would fall off the hypersensitive beast of burden that reminded her vaguely of Jakinson Biles.

0-0-0

Although not usually given to strong drink, Frodo had made a tradition of going out with his friends every year upon this night, as a requiem for his missing father figure. At first it had been only him and Sam, taking a couple barstools at the local pub, swapping stories and drinking themselves into oblivion. Then Merry and Pippin had come of age, and those two were never ones to miss the opportunity to party. Frodo's younger cousins lent the tradition a happier air, and soon other friends and relations began to join in. Fatty Bolger had become a semi-regular, and young Tom Cotton could be counted on to stop by their table for at least a few minutes every celebration. The latter's sister Rosie, who helped run the pub, had offered Frodo and Sam free drinks for the evening, given how much income the party earned the Green Dragon Inn, but Sam had declined her offer with a reddened face. Despite his insistence that "drinkin' on the house just ain't right" and muttered comments on "fair's fair, my Gaffer always says," this nobility earned him several teasing comments from the younger members of the party.

"Sam, why don't you just go ahead and ask her to marry you?" a rather inebriated Pippin slapped his friend's shoulder and pointed in the general direction of a place where Rosie Cotton may have once passed. "Everyone knows you're sweet on her."

"I- I couldn't. I just can't." Sam stuttered and hid his round, beet-red face by slumping behind his mug of ale.

"At least ask her to a dance, Sam. The Yule festivals will be quickly upon us." Fatty said in a more serious tone of voice.

"The worst that can happen is that you'll have those two scamps who have the temerity to call themselves my cousins laughing at you, and Merriadoc and Peregrin will do that anyhow," Frodo added with a roll of his eyes at the two in question, who had started signing a rather bawdy song about hedgehogs while dancing on a tabletop. Sam did not grace his friends' suggestions with a verbal reply, but shook his head wildly before hunching further into his drink. Nevertheless, Frodo's closest friend continued to stare wistfully after the rosy-cheeked barmaid until past closing time.

Gandalf was waiting for Frodo when the younger man returned home, appearing wild-eyed from the shadowed corners of the dimly lit house. "Is it secret?" he asked desperately. "Is it safe?" For a moment, Frodo stared at him, unsure of what he spoke. The haze of alcohol and good company had slowed his thoughts. "Your heirloom, Frodo, where is it?" The wizard grabbed his shoulders, barely restraining himself from shaking some sense into his smaller associate.

"Oh, that? Of course, Gandalf," Frodo assured him, removing the envelope from a trunk that contained Frodo's main keepsake from the missing Bilbo, who had not returned to the Shire since his uncanny disappearance at the party nearly a decade ago. He handed it to the old wizard, whom to Frodo's complete surprise threw it in the fireplace. Frodo was even more at a loss when he saw the burning letters appear on the plain gold band as the old man dropped it back into his small, rounded palm. It was cooler to the touch than it should be.

"As I thought," the gray bearded wizard whispered. "You're in grave danger, Frodo. The Shire is no longer safe as long as we have this. Nothing is safe anymore. You must leave." He started at a noise from outside the window. "You'd best pack all you need. We must head to Rivendell. The Elves may yet be able to protect this. I will ride ahead and meet you at the inn in Bree. If you cannot find me, don't dither there; your pursuers will track down you down all too quickly otherwise. Just get this to Rivendell," Gandalf pressed the cool metal deeper into the hobbit's hand before he could protest. A reminiscent smile flickered briefly across the old wizard's hawk-like features. "As I recall, you always wanted an adventure as a boy. Your adventure starts on the morrow, Frodo Baggins."

A funny thing about adventures: as a child listening to Uncle Bilbo's stories, Frodo had always wanted to go on one with his uncle and closest friends at his side, with Gandalf leading the way. But now that it was actually happening, Frodo wasn't so sure he was ready to leave home and go on an adventure anymore.


	6. Dreams and Traveling Trouble

Author's Notes: And so we introduce Warg's other side: the pervy Boromir fancier. He doesn't belong to me, fortunately for all concerned, and neither does the rest of Middle Earth. Everything will be returned to the books and movies with only minimum psychiatric wear and tear and no more than 5 pints extra drool, I promise.

* * *

Tasana froze as she heard the riders approach from the south, crouching uncomfortably on her hands and one knee next to the alpha female in the underbrush. Although her left leg was cramping, the woman did not dare to move until the mounted party had passed off into a thicker part of the South Woods. Cursing her unusual height that prevented the healer from using a more relaxed position, Tasana stood, shaking leaves from her dark, shoulder-length hair. "They may call themselves rangers, but those soldiers make nearly as much noise as a bunch of orcs."

Her companion laughed. "Fortunately for us the humans do make so much noise. Our two peoples have never gotten along."

"I'm not that bad, am I?" the human cocked her head with playful pride. "At least I don't scare off all the game within half a day's run." Her mother had taught her to move quietly in the forests as a girl, and five years of sneaking away to the wolves to run amongst them had improved Tasana's sylvan skills immensely. The gangly, rebellious adolescent daughter of Tamithor Rivermerchant was now one of the foxiest trackers south of Bree, easily able to avoid the Steward's rangers, much less her father's hapless apprentice.

"You do not howl before the hunters have moved into position, at least, little healer," the old she-Warg sniffed disapprovingly after the drifting scent of horse sweat. "Those cause fear in all they pass, with good reason."

"Not all humans mean evil for Wargs," the woods-woman stretched and shook the wolf's understated fears and her own off with the last of the cramp, and then tucked her short black hair back behind her ears, once again aware of the significance of its color. "If the Dunedain, for instance, knew you fought orcs, they would – "

"My mate met the Dunedain when he was young, little healer," the wolf called Mithilira cut her off. "They were no better than these soldiers, save the northern men are slightly quieter in the woods." The black alpha Warg had had to kill or be killed since he escaped the orc – dominated northern packs. Since then he had fought his former captors with vengeful fury. The wolf lord held little respect for other bipedal species as well, untrusting of anything that moved on two legs save Tasana. His mate shared his opinions for the most part, seeing how the great Wargs had been driven from the northeast and were being butchered in the south. There had been bad blood between wolves and men for far too long.

"I'm aiming to change that." Tasana said quietly, purposefully. She may not wear her hair in the tiny, complicated rows of Dunedain braids as her mother had, but Tasana was well aware of her double heritage from both the prosperous, hardworking, and often-warlike community of Gondor's main city of Minas Tirith, the city of her birth, and the more distant, near legendary Arnor, where her mother's clan lived. The Dunedain were the real rangers, not just soldiers of the Steward who rode out of the city whenever they were spoiling for a fight, but gypsy wanderers who befriended the elves and lived in harmony with their northern forests. They were either the true kings of humanity or the worst group of thieves and cutthroats to stalk Middle Earth, depending upon whom one asked. The latter type of people, including her father when he was in a resentful mood, often compared Tasana to her mother, blaming the maid's wanton wanderings upon her Dunedain legacy. Tasana, personally, was glad for the freedom her mother's woodland training had provided her with, and was eager to meet her northern relations and help them prove their honor to Gondor's citified society. But first she would attempt to help the Wargs make peace with humanity, and it would be more likely for the lost King of Gondor to return than Tasana to be able to bridge the years of hatred and mistrust between men and wolves. "Perhaps, at least, we can teach these southern 'rangers' to hunt more quietly."

0-0-0

There always seemed to be a large number of unusual visitors at the inn of the _Prancing Pony_. Despite its small size, the town of Bree was surprisingly important on the northern trade routes. Anyone traveling to or from the Shire stopped in Bree, and the _Pony_ was the only inn in town. The ranger clans also came there to trade for cloth, weapons, and other supplies in the town; the merchants of Bree were the only ones who trusted the Dunedain enough to let the thieving rouges in their shop.

Barliman Butterbur, the proprietor of the _Pony_, never trusted such folk as a rule, but as long as the rangers kept to themselves and did not bother any of his customers; money was money. Payments in the form of hides and leather weren't all that unusual, and Butterbur was often too absentminded or in a hurry to ask what unfortunate soul the Dunedain had held up for most likely ill-gotten gold that a few of the northern trackers paid him with. It was good Gondor coin, imprinted with the seal of the Seventh Tower and easy to spend. Considering the times, Butterbur did not ask too many questions, but Dunedain paid up front.

The creak of the opening door and the sound of wet feet coming in from the rain caused Butterbur to look up from the bar. Four soggy, barefoot forms whose heads just barely cleared the top of the bar approached Butterbur with wide eyes and raised hackles. "What can I do for you, little masters?" He asked in his brightest voice, hoping to put them at ease. Hobbits generally did not travel much, and these poor ragged souls had had awful weather for such a long distance on foot, if they were from the Shire, as they looked to be. Butterbur had seen all kinds of people, and considered himself a good judge of character.

"Do you know if Gandalf is here?" the oldest one asked. At the innkeeper's pondering silence, he added, "Gandalf the Gray? We're friends, and he's supposed to meet us here."

"Gandalf… Long gray beard, pointy hat?" the hobbit nodded impatiently. "Sorry, little master, haven't seen him in six months. I'm sure he'll turn up here shortly though," Butterbur added with a reassuring smile as they whispered among themselves worriedly. "We've got some nice hobbit-size rooms on the ground floor if you and your friends care to wait for him. Why don't you go into the common room and take a load off after your journey? I'll send word to you when he shows up, Mister…"

"Underhill," the hobbit answered quickly, too quickly to be truthful. Butterbur thought the old man the hobbit was looking for had once mentioned another who had used that same alias some fifty or sixty years ago; a rich little hobbit who traveled in the company of dwarves. Butterbur could not remember the former Underhill's right name, Baggy Billow, Billby Bagolend, or something like that….

At least this "Mister Underhill" and his friends had taken the innkeeper's advice and were relaxing in the common room. Perhaps getting a little _too_ relaxed. One of them had gotten up on a table and was dancing a jig and singing drunkenly as his friends clapped him on. Butterbur generally didn't mind such antics, so long as they did not trouble paying customers, but the big Dunedain in the corner was staring menacingly at the dancing hobbit. Strider was fairly trustworthy, for a thieving ranger, and always paid for his few, watered-down ales in Gondor coin, but Butterbur would hate to see that one riled.

Like all the Dunedain Butterbur had ever had the misfortune of meeting, Strider was tall, morose, and dark as the Black Tower in the south. This particular specimen was even more intimidating than average, not so much for his height or build, which was typical of the tall, lean men from the north, as for his aura of power that was obvious to even the drunkest fool looking for a fight in the _Pony_.

On the table, the hobbit tripped, fell off the table, and completely disappeared before he hit the ground. Butterbur and his guests stood stock still in shock until he reappeared a few seconds later a foot away from where he should have landed. No one moved when the Dunedain picked up the hobbit and whisked him out of the common room. The other three, brandishing walking sticks, a chair, and a skillet, followed after the ranger a few seconds later, and the spell upon the room was broken. Butterbur examined his ale, but it was no stronger than usual. He took another long draught to banish the night's insanity, but his liquor told him he had not yet seen the worst. As usual, his ale turned out to be just about right.

0-0-0

The angry storm clouds blew up from the East, out of the desecrated city that few dared to name. Black smoke covered the sky and blotted out the sun. The harsh winds and rain blotted out all sound, tearing against his clothes and hair with a malevolent will all its own. Rain stung his eyes, half blinding him as chain lighting struck from the dark tower toward the white city that sheltered all he held dear.

This torment, this danger was beyond the hands of any man it seemed, yet as the driving downpour strengthened, he could not help but blame himself for leaving that beautiful place and its populace to bear the brunt of the storm's force. He knew not how he came to be standing here, out in the stark, faceless wilds between home and the hellish eastern lands, but a part of him knew that if only he could return, he could stop the thunderous doom fast approaching. His father, his little brother – a man in his own right now, but ever the small boy who had rushed to him to set things right, in his eyes – his countrymen, all would be safe if only he were to raise his sword against the lightning.

But something kept him from doing so. He knew it would be dangerous, and not only to him. In the distance, he saw another sword raised as he hesitated and cursed himself for such hesitation: a weapon of age, power, and elegance. The lightning struck, and it shattered, sending shrapnel to the four winds. Despite the sacrifice of the blade, the bolt was hardly slowed on its path, ricocheting off the broken sword on towards the city. There was no chance of stopping it. The man who had upheld the ancient blade had been shrouded in shadow and driving rain, but as the thunderbolt struck, his briefly illuminated face had held an expression of utmost despair. The other's act had been hopeless, yet he knew no alternative way to try to prevent his city's destruction.

Yet in the northwest, a single, faint beam of pale light remained with the memory of the sun. He heard a melodious feminine voice call to him clearly over the rain, its source unidentifiable as if from a great distance, it sounded at once familiar and completely alien to him, an implacable sweetness in the middle of the storm. "Seek the sword that was broken," it commanded him. "In Rivendell shallt thou find it. Make haste, for Isildur's Bane is waking and doom is near at hand!" This hint of hope had come too late, though. He slowly raised his own blade, waiting for the lightning.


	7. Meetings and Rumors

AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy...

Rating: G, for now, but later chapters may contain swearing and brief sensuality.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything but Mithilira and Tasana, like you'd want them anyway. I'll trade them for reviews.

Edit: I just added a bit more behind Mithilira's reasoning for sending Tasana off. Maybe it's more Sueish this way, but it's semi-logical Sueish. We hope.

* * *

"That is no mere trinket for songs and tricks that you carry, 'Mister Underhill,'" the dark, rangy specter growled as he shook the frightened hobbit he carried by the scruff of the neck. "By my rights I ought to abandon you to whatever orc, brigand, or black rider that finds you first. A most fortunate thing for you that Gandalf sent me, else they would have done just that."

Frodo grasped desperately for his scattered wits. The ale in Butterbur's inn was stronger than anything the normally abstemious hobbit had ever tried in the Shire, but being shaken like a wet rag by a disagreeable-looking six-and-half-foot tall stranger was doing wonders for Frodo's sobriety. "My friends and I have avoided the riders so far without any help."

Frodo decided it was best to exclude mentioning how close a thing that had been. While crossing the Brandywine River the mysterious followers had been almost right atop the small barefoot party. Those awful creatures made the surly Dunedain ranger look positively magnanimous by comparison, scaring every creature down to the very worms in the soil their coal black mounts made contact with. Between the black riders, the wraiths of the Barrow Downs, and enchanted trees that put people to sleep before eating them, it had indeed been a very long journey, and Frodo was in no mood to be lectured about how narrow his escapes had been. However, he was even less in the mood to face another threat, and there seemed little he could do about being carried by the scruff of the neck; so the hobbit decided to keep his mouth shut and stop squirming.

The ranger, having reached his destination on the second floor, tossed Frodo down onto the long bed and sat down in the austere wooden chair next to the door in the sparsely furnished rented room. After double-checking the lock, the black-haired man turned his piercing gray eyes upon the hobbit as Frodo took stock of the room. "Are you frightened?" The Dunedain paused as the hobbit nodded wordlessly. "Not nearly frightened enough. Those are the Ring Wraiths chasing you: Sauron's immortal hounds tirelessly hunting after their master's source of power, which _you_ now carry, Frodo Baggins. You must be more careful if you hope to survive to see Rivendell. Never, ever put that on again."

A pounding on the door interrupted Strider's lecture. One hand on his sword hilt, the ranger opened the door to find three young hobbits pour through the doorway. "You'd best let Mister Frodo go, you brute," Sam snarled, clutching his pan in a desperate but businesslike manner. Pippin brandished his walking stick with a very good impression of his father's outrage after catching the boys at a prank. Merry did his best to keep a formidable expression upon his face as he held the stool from the bar shield-like in front of him, but his angry countenance twitched slightly as the hobbit looked up towards the obviously dangerous ranger who held his cousin captive.

The Dunedain chuckled at their futile display, drawing his broken sword in a quick salute. "Quite an amazing people indeed, as Gandalf is so fond of telling me. Easy, friends, I mean you and Frodo no harm. Gandalf has sent me to escort you to Rivendell in his place, whilst he sends word to the wizards of Isengard of what has come to pass."

"How do we know you're a friend of Gandalf?" Sam asked, never lowering his skillet.

"I suppose there is yet little proof I can give you as yet, Samwise Gamgee, not until we get upon the road. But stand here by the window and watch the gates for a while. Then you and Frodo can tell me if you still do not require my aid." The ranger shrugged carelessly and backed into the shadows of the room without a sound after sheathing his sword.

All seemed quiet outside the room with its window overlooking the stabiles and part of the front door. People entered and left the_ Prancing Pony_, talking and laughing amongst themselves, rarely loud enough to carry up to the second story window; their horses were saddled or led into the barn, and local livestock pawed and grazed in the grass. Sam turned away from the window and headed toward the door, but was cut off by the black shadow of the cloaked Dunedain. "You don't want to leave here tonight. Believe me, I hold you here only for your own protection."

Sam grumbled, but was cut off from further argument by a gesture from Frodo. The eldest of the hobbits did not trust the ranger, but something in the cool night air raised the hair upon the back of his neck. Frodo sat by the window long after his companions had gone to sleep, Pippin and Merry drowsing off in the bed, Sam stubbornly remaining on his feet until he collapsed against the wall in exhaustion. Strider picked up the sleeping hobbit gently, tucking Samwise in between the other two before righting the stool Merry had brought in. "Who are they?" Frodo asked the tall man as he sat upon the chair that was barely half the size needed to fully accommodate his lanky frame.

"Nazgül. No man can kill such creatures, wraiths in the service of the Dark Lord. They do not see the world as we see it, but merely in terms of distances between themselves and that bane which you carry. They sense it always; hear its call most loudly when someone uses it. They will hunt you so long as that is within your possession, Frodo. Their master is rising again, and needs only this to regain his power. But listen, and soon you will see why I brought you here." The Dunedain sat forward in his chair as the chilling screams Frodo recognized all too well sounded outside the inn.

Nine black forms upon darker horses trampled the gate beneath them, and then with five standing watch over the horses, the remaining four broke down the door to the inn. Frodo held his breath as he heard their heavy stomp approach the room where he and his friends had planned to spend the night. There was the sound of drawn steel, and the repeated muffled thumps as their swords tore the beds to kindling. Frodo could almost make out the dark forms in the window across the inn, and heard their unnatural screams of frustration as they discovered the hobbits had escaped their grasp. Sam woke as the black horsemen remounted and streamed off into the night. "What was that?" he asked once Strider had removed his hand from the disoriented hobbit's mouth.

The ranger gave Frodo a hard look, and the hobbit nodded slowly. Turning back to the wild eyed awakened sleeper, Strider indicated the window with the chaos milling in the streets below. "That," he replied softly, "is the reason you need to trust me."

* * *

Her father offered her hand to many a business partner over the next two decades, perhaps even secretly counting on her to run away from her suitors. On this point Tasana never failed to succeed, escaping to the woods, the wolf pack, and her sword, learning how to use the poisoned orc blade the same way she had learned her bow: through experience. She got plenty of that with both weapons as she accompanied the Wargs on hunts and orc raids, teaching the wolves her language as well as learning theirs.

Twenty-three years after her initial contact with the pack, the news was on every tongue, human and wolf alike. The eldest prince of Gondor, heir to the steward, had had some strange prophetic dream was riding to Rivendell as fast as the swiftest messenger horse could carry him. Supposedly, the dream predicted the doom of the White City, Minas Tirith, and all her surroundings. Was it possible that the Dark Lord and his ilk were attempting to conquer Gondor? Certainly the orc raids Tasana had participated in lately seemed to be getting worse.

"Talk to him, little healer," the seeress of the pack urged her. "This dream is a sign of the seer sense, and that is much too rare in Wargs, much less your kind, to let this go to waste. One is lucky to be able to foresee a single event in one's lifetime, and to witness such as this forebodes a great life indeed. Tell him the packs will aid him, if it leads to the defeat of our shared enemy." While her mate never trusted humans as a rule, Mithilira put great confidence in the woods woman's judgment of other members of her species. The alpha had seen her protégé angst over these rumors, and it was better to get Tasana out and about than let her stew and threaten the wolves' food intake from some mindless blunder she made on a hunt.

Besides, Mithilira's own well-developed instincts insisted that this alliance would prove fruitful for her pack. The Warg was quick to identify those who might show talent for what she referred to as the seer sense, a gift of foresight granted to those with close ties to elven-kind. The talent had been dying out amongst the Wargs from such a long separation from their former masters. It was prized amongst wolves, as a strong seer might lead his pack to better hunting grounds and save them from threats. Mithilira had interpreted Tasana's healing skills as an offshoot of this talent, and had been attempting to train her in it for ages, although prescience was not a skill that could be learned without some inner knack for it. If this Boromir had truly had some prophetic dream, it would be best to bring him into some alliance with the pack, if getting him to join them was out of the question.

The woods woman sighed before trying again to explain the reasons behind her reluctance to comply with the alpha's request. "Mithilira, humans are not like Wargs. He has many in his pack, and cannot listen to all of us."

"Unthinkable. If an alpha cannot interact with all his pack, they will leave him." The gray wolf commanded almost forty Wargs now, but she and her mate made time for each and treated them with respect. In truth, Mithilira acted not so much as a queen as an arbitrator and hunt-coordinator.

"There is a reason I stay here in the forest with you, my friend." Tasana bowed her head and reached into the rough gray coat to scratch behind the sharp silver ears, a gesture that would have earned her a toothy rebuke ten years ago. Since then, Tasana had learned to show respect before making contact with a high-ranking pack member, and the wolves had discovered that she meant no challenge by it. Indeed, some of the younger ones would seek her out for their more persistent itches and parasites unashamedly. "But as you might let another lead a hunting party that you do not follow, so the humans let others stand in their place almost constantly."

Mithilira seemed to grasp this concept more readily than she had the idea of a steward or his son. "That still must be awkward during the breeding season," she commented, sighing contentedly as Tasana found her favorite spot. Like their all but extinct smaller cousins, Wargs let only the alpha pair breed, but it was up to each pair of alphas to enforce this rule. Early winter was the one time when Mithilira could become positively tyrannical.

Tasana let this misunderstanding go for now. "But you understand why I cannot contact him now? I am not one of his betas; I am no hunt-leader."

"Nevertheless, you possess information that your alpha needs to know, and you need information and direction from him. It is the duty of any pack member to help her leader." Mithilira would not be persuaded of the frailty of her plan.

At last convinced to slip away and find out for herself what dooms she faced, the healer mounted Mithilira, the chief she-Warg she had befriended for so long, and rode hot on Lord Boromir's heels. Tasana had learned how to run nearly as fast as her four-legged companions for short distances, but had little hope of ever matching a wolf in stamina. The journey through neighboring pack territories was relatively uneventful, but even with abstaining from hunts and the woods-woman spelling her friend by running alongside the Warg, she and her quadruped companion were forced to chase a cold trail. The steward's son had not spared a moment on his journey, and evidence along the track hinted that he had pushed his mount to its utmost. His pursuers knew not what could push a legendarily bold, intrepid man to such flight, but they did know the dangers of being caught at his destination.

As much as the Wargs of the South Woods hated the orcs, there was a greater, far older enmity between the wolves and the elves. Long before Mithilira, an old matron by the standards a naturally long-lived race, had been born, there had been a betrayal that tore apart the Wargs and their former masters. The exact transgression was forgotten in the mists of time, but its resulting breach had never been healed. Most packs would rather turn to the orcs than the folk who had bred them from the great hounds and lesser wolves to become the master hunters of today. Tasana parted from Mithilira far outside the edge of Rivendell, fearing for her friend's safety. She trusted the seeress with her life, but the elves did not know the Warg's hunting preference for orc instead of elven meat. Hiding her scimitar beneath her cloak, Tasana approached the gates of Rivendell.


	8. Paranoia and Counseling

AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy...

Rating: G, for now, but later chapters may contain swearing and brief sensuality

Author's Notes: Okay; now we come to that point that proves beyond any other means that I really am a dorky fangirl. (Besides the fact that I'm now making the final irrevocable step into Mary-Sue-ism.) It's time for everyone's favorite game: Spot that Esoteric Song Reference!

Feeling sharp(e) today? (I wish I were.) It's tricksy, but I'll try to include enough hints that any fool worth his bean should be able to espy what part of the story I'm referring to, the artist, and the song title. This singer played a major part in a goofy spy comedy that was in theaters a couple of summers ago, which mocked a series in which the actor, who plays the character in Peter Jackson's version whose description is altered here, played the part of a villain. Still with me? I'm impressed. I got lost about four sentences back.

Anyways, if you can give me the quote in here, (it doesn't match up with Tolkien or Jackson's descriptions per se) the song it's based off of, and the singer, you get a special edition Istari Smiley Award and a shout out in the next chapter. Even if you were like me and didn't understand a word of that, hope you enjoy the AU, and if you don't get any pleasure from the story itself, have fun picking apart my freaky grammar and share the love through flames. I will remain a stupid git until I hear someone speak up to tell me that I am a stupid git. And even then it may take me a little while. May the Valar and Gods of Writing protect you all from those who are nuttier than I.

Is it tasty? Is it crunchable? Many thanks to Wizzo the Crunchy Frog for my first review. It's even a positive one; can you believe it? Agree or disagree with the dear frog as you will, but let me know how I'm doing through the little blue button.

Edit: Just added in a short bit from Boromir's POV in an attempt to explain Boromir's past knowledge of Tasana: he might have seen her once in a crowd. That's it. Edits are dedicated to BoromirDefender for a chapter by chapter review and pointing out logic weaknesses.

Further edit: Thanks to Saltwater for correcting my timeline.

* * *

"We cannot hide it here, Mithrandir." The elven lord shook his proud head sadly. "My people's strength is not what it once was, and we could barely survive an onslaught from the Dark Lord at the height of our power."

"You fared better than the other races, my old friend." Gandalf nodded with a bittersweet smile. "We will have to destroy it, then, but this will not be an easy task. It must be cast into the fires of Mordor."

"A fact I know all too well. No army could ever hope to penetrate that deeply into Sauron's foul kingdom." It had happened once, just after the battle with Sauron three thousand years ago. But human frailties had squandered that opportunity to destroy this bane that threatened Rivendell once more. The elf glanced briefly at the two men sizing each other up like wildcats from where they sat facing one another at opposite ends of the council ring. Both appeared as dangerous and confrontational as the dueling red dragons embroidered upon the southern lord's white doublet that the lighter haired man wore atop his chain mail. No, he couldn't blame them for the mistakes of their forefathers. His daughter, sons, and young cousin were so fond of the Dunedain, whom Lord Elrond looked upon as almost a foster son. Aragorn shouldn't bare the blame of Isildur's madness, the memory of which haunted Lord Elrond's sleep and disturbed his waking thought. Even if…

"No, but a small group may be able to sneak in where an army could not. A group of no more than nine or ten might go unnoticed," Lord Elrond's daughter spoke up. Like her father, Arwen possessed an ageless elven beauty and a quick mind.

"I've kept it this far. I will see this quest through, no matter how far it takes me, even into the Black Tower itself," Frodo said quietly. His friends quickly added their willingness to go.

"You'd have to tie us in a sack and throw us in the river to stop us!" Frodo's youngest cousin stood as tall and proud as his slender three foot five frame allowed.

"I wouldn't be surprised, seeing how it's impossible to separate you three from him. You managed to sneak into a secret meeting you weren't even invited to; Mordor should prove no problem." Elrond allowed himself a brief, droll smile. "So be it, then. You and your companions shall journey to Mordor to destroy the ring. With you and Gandalf, who must go as your guide, I shall send my kinsman Legolas as a representative for the elves, Lord Boromir of House Hurin of Gondor as a representative of men's concerns, and Gimli son of Gloin for the dwarves."

"Gimli's father went with Uncle Bilbo on his adventures," Frodo whispered to Sam. "It will be good to have them with us. Have you all agreed to this already?" He looked toward the three who had motioned at being named to the company. "Your aid is more than welcome, but it shall not be an easy journey. Even if you decide to go with us of your own free will, there are no guarantees that we will finish it together, so I won't object if you want to back out at any time."

"Perhaps we can ease this journey somewhat. The best bow in Mirkwood is at your service, Frodo Baggins," The elf said, bowing with a small flourish.

"As is my axe," Gimli said taciturnly, leaning on a massive double bladed weapon that stood at least as tall as Frodo. He looked disapprovingly at the archer. The dwarves had come very close to war with the elves of Mirkwood during their resettlement of the dwarven homeland in the east, and old tensions still rankled.

"I disagree with Lord Elrond about this plan, but better the ring is destroyed quickly than to have it fall into the wrong hands." Boromir rose with the other two.

"I wouldn't couch it in quite the same terms Pippin used, but I feel it would be best if I continued with this group as well." A dark form stood alongside the man from Gondor: Strider, the enigmatic ranger who had met the hobbits in Bree. None of the hobbits fully trusted him, but the tall, secretive Dunedain had gotten them safely to Rivendell despite black riders in the service of Sauron constantly hounding them during the trip. "Now that my ancestors' sword has been reforged, perhaps it will at last fulfill its purpose in destroying the ring." At the mention of the northerner's lineage, the paler haired lord flashed him a look of contempt that would have done either glowering dwarf or glaring elven archer proud, had the two paused in their mutual scowling long enough to see it.

"My Estel… Aragorn, no!" Arwen clasped her hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Her father looked similarly shaken by this newest volunteer.

"Are you sure about this, Aragorn?" Elrond patted his daughter's hand in an effort to calm her, and studied the ranger's countenance. "You know the fate the ring brought to Isildur."

"I have my own weaknesses, Lord Elrond, but I will not make the mistakes of my forefathers. I will make sure that no one else will suffer his fate, either." The dark gray eyes of the Dunedain ranger flicked briefly from the shocked elven faces to Boromir, as the ranger rested his weather-beaten hand upon the hilt of his newly reforged sword. The prince of Gondor had wanted to use the One Ring to defend his city from inevitable attack from Mordor. The ancient king Isildur had tried to do this after taking the Ring from Sauron. It had corrupted the king, killed him, and scattered his line. Despite Boromir's promise to help him, Frodo decided he would have to watch the son of the Steward of Gondor very carefully.

* * *

Some timeafter her arrival, Tasana saw Boromir marching out of Rivendell at the forefront of a strangely assorted company, letting off a blast of his hunting horn. "Lead on my lord, and I shall follow you," Tasana saluted him.

"Then ride on to Minas Tirith, good woman, and see the White City for me one last time before it falls. For none should follow where this company passes," he returned formally, taken aback by her sudden appearance and strange clothing. Travel-stained, well-worn breeches were not typical attire for female petitioners awaiting entrance to the elven city. However, the woods woman had all but given up upon her chances at freely entering Rivendell, and it was easier for her to camp outside of the city in her normal forest gear than something more appropriate for meeting a highborn noble.

"What dark things you speak of, my lord! Tell me, if it can be said, are the rumors the guardsmen speak of true? For I've walked – and ridden when I can – all the way from Minas Tirith to find the truth; only to find the elven city closed to travelers. I shall have been here two months, come the end of this week. Shall all that waiting be for nothing?" She had argued with the gatekeeper for three days straight to no avail. Not even a change into her best dress had convinced him she was harmless. She was beginning to believe the rumors of elven eagle eyes, spotting her scimitar no matter the fact that she had hidden it beneath a heavy cloak. Tasana hated to go unarmed with even the slightest chance of orcs afoot. Tasana knew not why the elves, who were rumored to be so hospitable, had closed their borders, but she could guess that it had something to do with Boromir's dream.

"What do the great councils say of these matters?" she asked Boromir. As a leading lord of the city and a powerful warrior, he must surely know what was going on, if only he would be willing to reveal it.

"Not even the wise can foresee all that shall come to pass, Mistress Swiftfoot," said a wizened old man in gray clothing and a rumpled blue hat that might have been pointed several decades ago. "Yet dark times these are; for the Ring Wraiths of the Dark Lord Sauron ride once more and the orcs come out of hiding. I would heed Lord Boromir's advice and fly back home as quickly as you came here." The elderly man looked at her curiously, as if finally seeing past an illusion caused by her unconventional entrance and forward manner. "Which certainly makes me wonder: how did you get here so quickly? For Boromir arrived but four days before you claim to."

"I know a few shortcuts," Tasana said hastily, not wishing to reveal her connection with the pack.

"Indeed. Our company is headed south. Perhaps you would be willing to reveal these shortcuts to us then, Mistress Swiftfoot." The old man was much too suave for Tasana's liking.

"Not with that pony. My path leads through wolf territory." Tasana was glad to make use of any excuse that came into her mind, and she took up the small pack horse's nostril flaring at the Wargish scent upon her clothing quickly.

"Aw, Billy here ain't afraid of no wolf," one of the slender little men spoke up, patting the laden pony upon the nose.

"And the Wargs do not fear any man nor sword. The packs will kill you if you do not prove yourselves friends." The situation was growing tenser by the moment. Tasana unconsciously put a hand to the hilt of her scimitar that she wore under her cloak, noting Boromir and the other large man were also reaching for their swords. The dwarf had kept a two handed grip on his battle-axe during the entire encounter, and the elf now loosely fingered his bow.

"Quite a bold woman to challenge Gandalf the Gray, and a wolf-friend and swordswoman as well, if I'm not mistaken," the latter said coolly.

Gandalf the Gray? The master wizard of song and legend in Gondor and beyond? Tasana was in for more trouble than she had bargained for if she upset these people, but to Mordor with it. The elven archer was perilously close to slandering her wolves, yet it was required by some unknown instinct that she accompany Lord Boromir. Doing the best to hide her surprise, she shot back: "Where are the rest of your people then, Elf? Where are the armies riding for Gondor in the south? Yet no army is large enough to approach Mordor openly, is it?" Her argument was pure conjecture, but she could almost hear the little men's jaws drop. Even the old man's – Gandalf's – eyes widened slightly. "Your company heads for some danger I do not yet know, Lord Boromir. You have said none should follow you, my lord, yet the wolves shall join you of their own will. For not all Wargs are loyal to the Dark Lord, and many packs will stay with me, even to Mount Doom where our worst tormentor reigns," she added with a look at the elf, as if daring him to claim otherwise.

"Put down your weapons." The wizard commanded his compatriots. "She is as trustworthy as any companion we are likely to meet and more crafty than most. What is your name, Mistress Swiftfoot?" Gandalf asked.

"The wolves call me Chev'yahna, or Healer in their tongue," Tasana said, forcing her hand away from the pommel. This was her lord she was addressing after all, she reminded herself, whom she intended to serve. Yet he continued to view her anxiously, as if he thought she was planning to attack. She needed to calm down. Perhaps she too was jumpy, or Mithilira's talents were rubbing off, but there seemed to be an aura of hidden danger and treachery about her lord.

The old wizard waited, weighing her answer and seeming to expect more. The others looked toward Gandalf, gauging her by the sorcerer's reaction, though the dwarf, obstinately clutching his ax, was obviously holding to his own council. "What if she's a spy, Gandalf?" he asked, bristling in a manner that reminded Tasana of her pack-mates scenting an orc.

"Better the enemy you know than the one you don't. We will keep her close, and monitor her signals, if any, to the Dark Lord." The beak-nosed old man appraised her steadily.

"I suppose your mistrust is not without reason," Tasana started, keeping her outrage in check. "But I swear unto you, love of Gondor is my highest master, and I serve none other by coming here."

"Fair words, mistress, but they may yet belie foul intent," the tall, dark-haired man spoke. "Nevertheless, Gandalf's reasoning is sound. You will accompany us willingly, and try no tricks?"

"I mean your company no harm, sir. I only offer my aid." This answer seemed to satisfy the last inquisitor for the moment, but the dwarf and elf still regarded her with frank suspicion.

"We shall head for the High Pass in the morning, then." The wizard's voice broke the tense silence. "Today we will go by the roads to lay a false trail, but we'll cut across the open country tomorrow. I trust you are prepared to travel with us, Chev'yahna?"

"I am always ready, though I'll need to hunt within a few days," she nodded, looking toward the wilderness from which she had come.

"There's plenty of cram," the dwarf interjected, referring to the tasteless journey bread of his people.

"I prefer hare, or raw orc when I can get it." She gave him a predatory smile and received one in return.

"You will get your fill of orc, and then some, Chev'yahna, even with Master Gimli hewing as many orc necks as he can reach," the elf said grimly. "Precious few though that may be," he muttered under his breath.

"It will simply leave a few for your bow then, Legolas," the dwarf replied evenly. "By the way, I caught that last part of your comment." His voice was closer to a growl.

"Yet if you two are truly after orcs, we had best get moving before sunset," the wizard ushered them along the path.

* * *

When Boromir thought back to those first few days on the road, the main thing he remembered was the awkwardness. He, at least, was alone amongst strangers. The hobbits all knew one another, and the elf and the ranger appeared to have ties, if not such obvious ones as the familial bonds between the little Halflings. Gandalf was ever a mystery to the lord of Gondor. The old wizard had come to Minas Tirith occasionally during his youth, but Faramir had been the one that Gandalf had taken under his wing. Unlike his younger brother, Boromir had never had much patience for old legends.

Truth be told, he didn't have much patience for a lot of things. This included his impatience for the journey back to his city. Thinking of Faramir only increased his anxiety. He had not left home on the best of terms with either his brother or their father. Both worried about what might happen without his presence in the white city. Boromir knew how desperately his city needed him, but he was sure his family would be able to manage a short leave of absence. A small risk now would be worth a great weapon to use in the face of the enemy later. And who better to face that risk than Boromir? His father was past his prime, and Faramir, for all his strength, had little love for battle. Both more than made up for any deficiencies in war-craft with their canny minds. Better to leave those powerful intelligences to warding the city, and simply allow him to ride out and back as quickly as possible, enduring the hardships of the journey for the secret behind his troubled dreams. Or so the plan had been in theory.

In practice, it had not been so simple. Boromir had reservations about the council's plans for the Ring. If the little hobbit could resist the temptations of it, it couldn't be that hard to put to task. Still, all doubts aside, his pride insisted that he see this quest out to its end, if only to come to some resolution to his dream-inspired journey. He just wished it did not take so long. Boromir was becoming desperate for a familiar face.

Perhaps that was why he had been so accepting of the woman. Even if she had no connection to Gondor at all, the promise of someone with whom he could speak of his city had made him receptive to her pleas to join them. Better to pretend he knew her than suffer this loneliness any longer.

And yet, the loneliness was still there. She was so shy about him, about all of them, really, that it was difficult to get much out of her about her past. The woods woman who called herself Chev'yahna fully realized that she was under the constant scrutiny of her new companions, and seemed nervous about upsetting them. Rightfully so, Boromir supposed, watching how Gimli clung to his axe. Even the dwarf had some distant connection to the wizard and the hobbits, the man had noted with a suppressed jealousy. Soon, he'd adapt to these new companions he reassured himself, but it felt so odd not to be recognized and respected by reputation alone. At least this Chev'yahna was kind enough to show a bit of reverence. Yet what if this woman was simply buttering him up in order to sell the company out? Boromir did not feel this was the case, but perhaps it was best to keep a close watch on her, just until he could get to know her better. Gods knew the ranger did that to them all.

Boromir didn't know what to think of this Dunedain that the hobbits referred to as Strider. Aragorn certainly did not fit his mental image of the heir to the long-lost throne. To look at him now, scruffily attired in a ranger's faded leathers, the steward's son would not have expected him to show up in any court. The few times he had attempted to engage the older man in conversation, he had found himself subject to grunted monosyllabic answers and a piercing gray gaze. Even the elf didn't appear to have any great discussions with him, as Aragorn preferred to keep to himself during the long days of walking.

Despite the quiet of the ranger and the woods woman, these walking days were not precisely silent. What conversation Legolas did not make with Strider was often made up for with catty comments between the elven archer and the dwarf. Although the elder two hobbits were wary of him, the younger ones would grill Boromir and the rest of the company for knowledge, trading stories of their mischievous past for what stories and songs the man of Gondor would be willing to share around a cook fire. Whilst their occasional rounds of complaints could wear upon his frayed temper, Boromir genuinely liked the littlest members of the fellowship. They reminded him of how Faramir had acted when he had been small. Perhaps, these little reminders of home would combine to stave off his loneliness, but it would take some time to do so. For Boromir, it could not be too soon.

* * *

They walked as far as pack boundaries without incident. When the company stopped for the night well along the route to the mountains the wolves had already made themselves apparent to Tasana. They howled as the hobbits – as the small folk were called – started a small fire, as smoke free as they could make it.

The hobbits had been so cheerful on the road: bantering, joking, and singing, even with tired feet. They were definitely unused to life on the road and hard living, but their optimism had buoyed even Boromir's dour spirits, pulling him into a mock swordfight following an impromptu practice lesson as they stopped.

The wolf howls had unnerved the village dwelling hobbits, but Tasana's answering howl left all but Frodo quivering in fear. Even Lord Boromir, famed throughout Minas Tirith for his bravery, looked slightly shaken. Then, to everyone's surprise, Gandalf howled as well, welcoming Mithilira and her mate to the camp in their own tongue.

"I wasn't planning to introduce them for another few days, Gandalf," Tasana said in common tongue, her tilted head posturing confused but pleased interest after the fashion of gestures that the Wargs often used to communicate up close.

"Best if we get to know our allies as soon as possible. We never know when we might need a friend." The old wizard adjusted his tattered, dusty blue hat and stood nonchalantly, as if he was introduced to Wargs in the forests by mysterious swordswomen on a daily basis.

"We never know when we might need the pony, either. I hope they've already eaten," Tasana replied uncertainly. As usual, the great alphas appeared first, standing just outside the camp, with the rest of the pack sulking on the edge of the firelight. Tasana greeted them warmly, and then brought the other members of the group out to meet them individually. First out to greet the alphas was Gandalf the wise wizard, who spoke the Wargish words of greeting on his own. He smiled upon hearing the she wolf's name, the feminine version of his elven alias.

Next was Legolas, the sharp eyed and occasionally sharp-tongued elven archer whose age belied his almost youthful appearance. He nodded slightly in a gesture of trust to Tasana as the wolves looked toward her for introduction. The elf was not as set in his prejudices as he first let on.

Gimli approached too quickly and attempted to pat the lord of the Wargs on the head like a trained dog. Tasana had to prove how she received the name of healer and put a compress on the dwarf's bleeding arm from where the black wolf had taken his entire forearm up to his elbow in his mouth in return for Gimli's faux pass.

Samwise Gamgee the hobbit had nearly fainted when the wolves sniffed his hand. Pippin Took, the youngest, actually did, despite his blustering words of having seen it all when he accompanied Frodo and Strider to Rivendell, and Merry Brandybuck wasn't much more comfortable around the Wargs than his kinsman. Frodo Baggins accepted their presence gravely, but Mithilira shied out of contact with him, telling Tasana that the hobbit smelled of death, pain, and the Twisted Ones of Mordor. This was unfathomable to the woods woman, as the eldest hobbit in particular seemed harmless, as he lacked even the playful mischievousness of his younger cousins and the dogged, almost militant grit of his best friend, but she had come to trust the seeress's nose, for people's intentions as well as finding prey. The scent was only passive, the she Warg assured Chev'yahna at the healer's questioning look, but Mithilira still refused to approach Frodo.

The pack mistress and her mate welcomed Strider as an equal. The man was certainly used to the lonely atmosphere of the woodlands, which supported his claim of Dunedain origins as well as his dark hair and gray eyes did. Yet despite the stigma of being a northern ranger, a group hated by most "civilized" folk almost as much as wolves were, Strider seemed at least as kingly in bearing and manner as Lord Boromir. The ranger was certainly an enigma.

The Wargs picked up Tasana's feelings of respect towards Boromir, but Mithilira also smelled the taint of treachery that Chev'yahna had picked up earlier. "Keep an eye on that one," The seer wolf warned her.

"Two eyes, whenever I can spare them," Tasana replied in wolf tongue. Gandalf chuckled for some obscure reason and added in Wargish that he too, would watch Boromir.

The wizard and the ranger had the first watch that night, but Tasana couldn't sleep. "Strider?" she called softly.

"Yes?" the black-cloaked shadow silhouetted against the fire replied.

"I sense there is something about you that you've hidden, something that may prove extremely important later."

"You haven't been perfectly honest with us, either. Chev'yahna isn't your real name."

"Nor is yours Strider." She approached the fire, crossing her arms. The last dregs of high winter seemed to be gathering in the camp that night, particularly in the tall man's frosted tone of voice.

"I don't trust you, and you don't trust me. We'll work this way, with this amount of information until we build that trust." He faced away from the firelight, standing without moving.

"What was your mother's name?" Tasana had no idea where that question had come from, and it surprised her almost as much as the ranger. Her own mother, who had taught her woods craft as a child, had died a few years before Tasana had first encountered the wolves. In some ways, Mithilira had become a replacement mother to Celenel Rivermerchant's daughter, continuing the young woods-woman's education in the wild.

One thing that no one had been able to replace or continue was the stories of Tasana's mythical half-brother, whom Celenel had raised in the northern wildernesses. According to the tales their mother told Tasana, he would someday return to Gondor and claim the throne of his forefathers. These stories seemed naught more than fairy tales when Tasana was full-grown; the Stewards of House Hurin had ruled Gondor from father to son for generations. Yet the Stewards all said they took this power merely until the rightful heir to Isildur could be found, and there were rumors of kingly lines among the Dunedain….

"Celenel. She was lost to us on a hunt when I was young," he said absently, and then shook his head, as if trying to shake off a spell with it. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."

"Aragorn," she whispered, her eyes widening. He turned abruptly toward her, his dark gray eyes flashing in the firelight.

"How do you know that name?" His voice was too soft.

"My – er – my mother told me stories of you when I was little…" she stammered, losing eye contact, then let her voice trail off. "I really never saw how anyone could have lured her away from the forest," she started again more softly, slowly gaining power in her speech. "She was always wanting to take me back to her home in the North Woods, in Arnor, where her father Thorongil O'Palansül had raised her, but my father would never be content to leave dryads in the trees." Tasana willed him to understand with her eyes, not daring to say it outright. "She said you would be a king."

He shook his head again as if to drive away the shock, but then answered with a nod of dawning comprehension. "Mother always wanted a daughter, but I never had any other siblings. My father died when I was a baby, and she never remarried."

"Tasana, my brother. Perhaps Gandalf is right. We need allies." They gripped hands firmly before she took his place on guard.

"Even more, we need friends we can trust. You walk along the edge of a sword now, but perhaps it will be easier going after tonight." He gave her a slight smile.

"I hope so," Tasana returned. "Get what rest you can, Strider, and I'll see you in the morning."

"Wake Legolas in an hour," he advised her. "You can't stay up all night, either."

"I will." Whether she was replying to the former or latter statement neither was certain of.


	9. On to the Plot, and Caradhras

AU- The Fellowship is introduced to some of the most reprehensible beasts in Middle Earth short of Mary Sues: Wargs that even the orcs can't stand. Can't we all just get along? The enemy of my enemy...

Rating: G, for now, but later chapters may contain swearing and brief sensuality

Author's Notes: Plot? Action? What are they talking about, precious? Well, for those of you who have suffered through my rambling "character-building" vignettes, here, at last, we get to some actual action-type stuff that sticks with the same storyline from triple asterisk break to triple asterisk break. Some of the pieces are actually even a whole chapter in length, amazingly enough. Do you like it more or less than the earlier style? As always, all the good stuff belongs to the professor. I just borrow it for playtime.

* * *

The next afternoon the travelers reached the foothills of the mountains. Gimli proudly pointed out the highest peaks, all the while speaking of the wondrous hospitality his cousins in the mines of Moria would regale them with. "They resettled it a couple of years back, but I'm sure by now the great halls in Moria are brighter than they were at the height of the original settlement," he said, going on to describe in rather verbose detail the great feasts that had been held in those very same halls. Indeed, these stories alone were enough to make the footsore hobbits protest Strider's choice of a path along the windblown, ice crusted mountaintops. Even Boromir and Tasana wondered why Aragorn and Gandalf were so adamant about avoiding the deep mines below the mountain range. Surely there could be nothing more unpleasant down there than fire and shadow, nothing in a civilized dwarf mine as uncomfortable as all this blasted windblown snow and ice.

They were on an unsheltered ledge when the storm blew up out of nowhere. "This is no natural storm; it must be some sort of witchcraft! Look at Gandalf!" one of the hobbits called. Tasana could barely hear him over the wind. Their chilled hairy feet were all that could be seen of the hobbits, hidden between the pony and the lee side of the mountain, where they had a bare minimum of coverage from the storm. The entire group had gotten as close to the mountainside as possible. Tasana found herself jostling elbows with Boromir and Legolas, all eyes now fixated upon the wizard.

He was chanting something in a foreign tongue, shaking his staff ineffectually at the storm. His voice was all but lost in the howling wind. Then there was a crashing sound, followed by an avalanche on the opposite peak. "Ice giants! We have to get out of here! The path will be blocked up ahead!" Boromir shouted to Aragorn, who was standing next to him.

"We can't go into the mines! Besides, nothing will be able to move until this storm abates," the Dunedain argued vehemently.

"We have no choice!" Boromir shivered, snuggling closer to the wall and incidentally, Tasana.

"Boromir is right, Aragorn," Gandalf said, giving up any further efforts to hold back the storm. He did not look too pleased at his lack of options, either. "We will move toward the mines as soon as this storm clears."

After several tries that were extinguished from the ever-present wind and much muttered cursing, Boromir and Gimli started a small fire and all gathered closely around it, pulling heavy cloaks tight. Tasana built upon the already high plied wall of packed snow, attempting to help insulate the half frozen party from further frostbite. "Do you know who sent that storm up, Gandalf?" she asked, rubbing numb hands before the fire.

"More importantly, when will it stop? I'd give my left arm for a warm fire in my cousins' hearth about now," Gimli grumbled, brushing ice from his shaggy auburn beard.

"I don't know exactly who caused this storm, but I have no doubt it was sent by the enemy to delay us. As for how long it will last, we will quite probably be stuck here until morning, at least," Gandalf said, seemingly unaffected by the freezing drafts that invaded the icy camp, more of a cavern than a cliff with the sudden, deep snowfall.

It proved to be a long, cold night as the company awaited the passing of the storm. Everyone was in a sour mood and champing at the bit to leave the mountains behind. The cramped, chilly, and featureless space did little to alleviate the boredom and wanderlust that was at the front of everyone's mind. The hobbits used the fire to fry a little bacon, and then fell asleep in a shivering huddle by the wall. Gandalf, too, went promptly to sleep after dinner. He was the only one who appeared perfectly comfortable in the cold. Legolas of light elven feet and keen elven eyes scouted from atop the snow banks, watching for a break in the storm. Despite the freezing weather, the archer preferred activity in the elements to the constraining atmosphere of the snowed in camp. Tasana sat with her back against the side of the mountain, drowsing uneasily. Her brother dozed by the fire, adding a little of the soggy wood they had collected whenever the heat began to fail. Strider kept one half-closed eye on Gimli and Boromir, who stalked like a pair of caged wildcats; distractedly trading heated comments as the night wore on.

The next morning the worst of the snowfalls had stopped, but they still had snowdrifts that came up to as deep as Strider's waist to deal with. Legolas, with his catlike feet, had no trouble getting through the snow, of course, but the others had a difficult trek before them.

Aragorn and Boromir, who were the tallest and strongest members of the group, waded into the frigid drifts that could easily bury Merry or Pippin entirely in an effort to beat a path for the others. The men were completely exhausted from half digging, half swimming through the four foot high, tightly packed drifts before they had gotten more than a few feet. Despite the temperature, both were soaked with sweat and melted snow. Although they attempted to hide their weariness, particularly from Tasana, it seemed quite obvious to her that they could not continue their pace much longer. Asking Boromir to help Frodo, who was lagging behind due to his short legs and cold, tired feet, she took over the difficult task of plowing out a path with only minimal damage to the prince's pride. Legolas shouted encouragement from atop the snow bank, pointing them toward the end of the drift, where the winds had blown away all but the hardest packed ice. The dubious relief of that slippery surface instead of high piles of snow that were too soft to walk upon and too hard to push out of the way was too far away for Tasana's liking, and most likely Aragorn's as well, considering the grimly determined expression on the ranger's face.

The group did stop a few times once the men realized that the unspoken challenge on their masculine reputations, while never directly demanded by the "lady" in breeches within their midst, had already been lost once Strider yielded the front trailblazing spot to his sister. Once she had proven herself capable of handling the same grunt work as the other humans, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas, and the others warmed up a little toward the scrappy, headstrong healer. These three, once the most suspicious of Chev'yahna and her intentions, were now attempting to put her more at ease with the group. Boromir, especially, seemed to want to get to know her better. He switched places with Aragorn as much to have chance at nearly private conversation with her as to give the Dunedain a rest. "While a girl can't help but be flattered at your attention, milord," she said with a wolfish grin after his attempts to pry information about her past – particularly her marital status – hit a little too close to home for her to change the subject, "Isn't a little improper for a man of your standing to be alone with an unmarried woods-woman?"

"Perhaps, but you are already alone among strange men without a guardian, if that were not improper enough." He smiled in return, but Tasana suspected the pink tinge to his cheeks was not caused entirely by exposure to the cold. "If you find yourself in need of help ... well, 'tis a Steward's duty to protect his people. Not that I expect any trouble, mind you, these are men I would trust my wife to– er, I mean, my life to."

"I know what you mean, my lord." Tasana restrained her smile as much as she could. It was hard to believe this was truly Lord Boromir, the most desirable bachelor in Gondor - and the most notorious for avoiding women – tripping over his tongue like a schoolboy with a crush. This probably would never amount to anything more than a passing fancy for him, but Tasana would enjoy the irony of being pursued by one so often chased after while it lasted.

Strider spelled her for the rest of that drift, but there were other lesser obstacles to overcome in their path. They carried Frodo, Merry, and Pippin piggyback through the deepest snows and put Sam on the pony. Gimli refused any help getting through the drifts, despite barely being able to see over some of them, and Gandalf seemed to be doing well enough on his own, his battered blue hat proceeding leisurely down behind the rest like a snow-covered pennant. Finally, they had gotten off the high pass in the Misty Mountains and away from its freezing wind and snow. The sky was darkening with the coming evening and no one in the company had gotten much sleep last night, yet Gandalf dared not stop until they had gotten far away from the mountain pass and the malevolent force that had blocked the fellowship's way.

"Let me call the wolves, Gandalf. The great Wargs will be able to bear us on much fleeter feet than our own," Tasana suggested. The pack was proud and did not hold with packhorse duties, but Tasana was weary enough to risk the annoyance of the wolves in return for getting to Moria and away from dangers potent enough to worry the unshakable wizard with all possible speed.

"Ride upon Wargs like a horde of orcs?" Sam did not look any happier about this prospect than Tasana was sure the wolves would be. "You can count me out of that stunt." The little hobbit shook his head, and Gimli began to mutter under his beard.

"If you're walking then, Sam, would you mind leading the pony? My pack took a deer yesterday, and is well fed, but Bill might bolt in the midst of so many predators. I suppose you might catch up with us by the time we got to Gondor, if we wait for a month." Tasana attempted to keep an unruffled air, trying not to lose her temper and bite back at this useless balking. They were exhausted, and the others did not yet fully trust her or the Wargs. The struggle of getting off the mountain had unified the group somewhat, but they had no reason to trust the wolves except the healer's say-so. "We're all tired, and the Wargs who hunt orcs will get us to Moria before sunrise if we hurry," she added a little more gently.

Ignoring the disgusted look she received from the hobbit, Tasana howled her greeting to Mithilira, who granted the healer's request for a group of strong full-grown hunters to accompany the party to Moria. Although all the wolves were powerful and eager for the journey, Tasana still had to do some quick talking to convince them to accept riders and the riders to accept their mounts. Chev'yahna knew she had probably broken every diplomatic law and guideline ever established by the Wargs and the Free Peoples - human, elf, dwarf, and hobbit – but she at last managed to goad and bully the group into riding quickly along a dismal old dried riverbed toward the entrance to the mines of Moria.

The eerie surroundings lent an edge to the group's wariness. Old crumbling remains cast weird shadows in the dusky twilight, and the broken, rotting bones of dead fish and less easily identifiable creatures lay half covered in the dried mud of the riverbed. Low hills from the edge of the Misty Mountains blocked the peripheral view of the ill-kempt trail. Tasana imagined she could almost hear the footsteps of an unwelcome follower running behind the Wargs, but even if they were being followed there was little ten of the giant wolves could not fight off, especially with the aid of trained warriors, and even less they couldn't outrun, riders and all.

At last they stopped between a fetid slime covered pool that had not seen a source of fresh water in decades and a crumbling hill that may or may not have once been subjected to unnatural construction many years ago, but there were no remains of the dwarven stonemasons' work. The dim starlight barely reflected in the black mire of the lake. Gandalf probed at the old stone wall for some hidden sign of occupancy, current or former. If there was a special sign that might survive decades or even centuries of wear, it was not making itself obvious to the wizard, much less the healer, whose eyes were untrained to find such things.

Gimli, passing off the unkempt trail as a sign of the recentness of the resettlement, was once again speaking of the welcome his cousins would put on for their unexpected guests, complete with good beer, palatable hot food, a warm fire, comfortable beds, and at Tasana's not so subtle hints, added that there would probably be baths available as well. The mines themselves would be quite a sight, according to the claustrophillic dwarf. Great deep tunnels, mined for gold, gems, and the rare "true silver" that dwarves designed their strongest armor out of: mithril armor that could turn the sharpest blade and protect the wearer from most enchantments. "Well lit and excellently built, of course," Gimli assured Legolas, who shared none of his enthusiasm for subterranean passageways.

Meanwhile, the hobbits were redistributing the pony's load into everyone's packs. Billy had nervously put up with the wolves throughout their ride to Moria, but neither horses nor Wargs could fit through the twisting passageways of the mines. Somehow the requirement of leaving the little packhorse behind did not soothe the elf's claustrophobia, or Strider and Gandalf's private worries.

Sam tearfully hugged the pony's neck after the last of its baggage had been unloaded. "An' if those Wargs even think about hurtin' my Bill, I'm gonna make me a wolf skin coat out o' the lot o' them, yah hear me?" he shouted at the wolves, who ignored the small fist that barely cleared their heads.

"Don't worry, Sam. They don't quite understand your reasoning, but Roliran and the rest will protect that horse until he gets back home," Tasana assured him. She could only gesture helpless acceptance in answer to the hunter's questioning stare. The Warg didn't believe that the hobbit had a prey animal as a "pup," which was the closest Tasana could come to describing the relationship between pet horse and owner, but Roliran was willing to follow his leader's example. With a toothy yawn decrying two legged beings' eccentricities, he moved the pack into their positions to shepherd the packhorse back towards Rivendell.

At Sam's continued urgings, Gandalf left off his musings of the tumbledown wall long enough to cast a charm upon the pony that would keep wild predators away from it. Tasana gave a guard command once more to her loyal pack mates, and then with preemptory snap at Billy's heels, they herded the frightened pony northward.

"Aha! Here we are!" Gandalf said, tapping a point on the wall with his staff. He revealed a shimmering silver design on the wall that twinkled in the moonlight. It resembled a double door with elven script atop its arch. The doors, if that was in fact what the mystical shining design was, were decorated with a crown above an anvil, with seven stars surmounting the crown and two flowery stylized trees laden with crescent moons below. A much larger star was placed between the two trees, twinkling like its cousins in the night sky above. The arched doorway was high enough for a man as tall as Aragon to pass through without needing to duck his head if it were opened. This was certainly not the work of weathering.

"A dwarven door of old!" Gimli whispered reverently. "In peaceful times these were never closed, but were always thrown open to freely welcome travelers of all races. And look! Upon those doors is the crest of Durin, founder of my people, or I'll be an elf!"

"We certainly hope that never comes to pass, Gimli," Legolas chuckled.

"What does it say, Gandalf?" Frodo, who had been a book scholar of nearly forgotten languages before his odd inheritance had changed his life forever, asked. "Those runes are Elvish characters, but they don't look like any I've ever seen before." Neither Gimli nor Legolas recognized the ancient form of Elvish on the door, either.

"On a more pressing matter, how do we open the door? I don't see any handles and I would prefer not to wait for the open hospitality of the inhabitants. It doesn't look like they keep much of a watch on this entrance." Boromir kicked a stone that had crumbled from the ancient masonry at the door. It bounced of the shining panel without any more effect than a muted, solid sounding thunk that echoed slightly from the nearby hills.

Strider made a shushing gesture, checking the murky lake for signs of movement. "Keep it down. You don't know what's out here. Worse, we don't know what watches us from the mines."

"Nothing more frightening than Gimli's cousins, surely. What is it that has you so upset about coming here?" Tasana asked her brother.

"You obviously haven't heard the Dunedain's tales of the lost mines of Moria," he replied darkly.

"Greatly exaggerated, I'm certain." She shook her head at his sour expression.

"Then listen to someone who has been there," Gandalf interrupted them. "That was some thirty or forty years ago, before the resettlement, and I came through from the southeast gate, but I remember the horrors of that journey well enough." Legolas shuddered, and looked wishfully toward the frozen mountain peaks from whence they had come. The old wizard chuckled and added soothingly, "But I'm sure the insides of the mines have been vastly improved with the new immigration. When I last went there, it had been abandoned for hundreds of years. Amazing that these doors have survived, really. As to Frodo's question, the runes confirm Gimli's statement. It reads 'the Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter,' in the common tongue." He shrugged slightly, and leaned on his staff. "I think it's simple enough to open. If one is a friend, one simply says the password and the doors will open on their own. Unfortunately, I do not know the password."

"Wonderful. Just bloody fantastic," Boromir grumbled, throwing up his hands and stalking off along the edge of the dark, murky waters. "Centuries of knowledge fail us on the point of one single bloody door."

Tasana could understand her liege lord's frustration, but this pacing only increased tensions. Silently following him out of the rest of the group's hearing range for everything save yells, the healer spoke up as she caught up to him. "That's a fat lot of help you're giving him right now, milord. Be a dear, Lord Boromir, and get some sleep. You push yourself too hard," she said softly, curtsying in her thread worn breeches, then, at his stubborn, imperious expression, Tasana bowled the surprised prince over.

"You don't play fair, Chev'yahna." A slightly embarrassed but eager grin flickered across his mouth.

"Is there any other way, milord?" she smiled in return, blushing at her audacity. Tasana hadn't tackled a boy since she was twelve. "Now will you go to sleep and quit complaining, or do I have to knock Your Stewardship out for the night with the pommel of my sword?" She playfully restrained him with one hand on his muscular chest while reaching for her scimitar with the other. He held the former hand against his heart with a little squeeze, gave Tasana a true smile, and then brushed her forehead with his lips. She blushed even more deeply. Who would have imagined Tasana Rivermerchant, the maid of the Wargs, flirting with the steward's eldest son and heir? Especially in public!

"Wake me up if Gandalf figures it out," Boromir said, then laid his head back on his arm and closed his eyes. His grip relaxed on her hand, and Tasana stood slowly, as not to wake him. For a moment she contemplated returning his good night kiss, but avoiding her brother's eloquently arisen eyebrow drove all thought of this course of action from her mind. Strider had come up behind them even more quietly than Tasana had behind Boromir.

"He was up pacing all night and then took a good amount of the work on the mountain. He needs all the rest he can get," she objected to his silent accusation.

"True enough, Chev'yahna," he said, leaving his opinion of her methods to be explained only through his body language. To a woman who had spoken mostly through the postures and tones of the Warg language for the past twenty-three years, he had said more than enough. If it were possible, Tasana would have turned ever redder.

Legolas, Gimli, and the hobbits gave no sign that they had noticed anything. Gandalf was still hard at work, tapping his staff against the doors in various places, shouting, "open!" and similar phrases in several languages, many that Tasana didn't recognize.

The hobbits lounged nearby, resting and musing over the mysterious forgotten password. The youngest skipped a rock across the murky surface of the lake, lost in thought. "It's a riddle," Peregrin murmured. "Gandalf, what's the elven word for 'friend'?" he asked.

"Don't do that Pippin! There are things in the water best left undisturbed," Strider chastised him.

"Pip, you should know better than to bother Gandalf with stupid questions while he's busy," Frodo reproved his cousin. "This is too important to be some silly riddle."

"Sorry." Pippin shrugged and put down another stone he had been toying with, and then looked expectantly toward the wizard. Seven other pairs of eyes joined his at the continued silence.

"Of course!" Suddenly Gandalf laughed. "Mellon!" he said in a commanding voice, and the doors slowly opened without a noise. "It seems obvious now. You were right, Pippin."

"From the mouths of babes and fools…" Frodo muttered in surprise, staring at the open doors.

"Don't be so surprised, Frodo," Pippin tapped his skull, which up until tonight most of his friends would describe as slightly thick, with a laugh and a devilish light in his eyes. "Simple riddles require simple minds."

It was dark inside the mines. The entryway was gloomy looking, dusty, and cobweb covered. One could not see more than a couple of feet into the entrance without passing through the doors. It looked thoroughly abandoned. Before anyone could comment, there was another splash in the lake behind the company.

"Peregrin Took!" Frodo yelled at his younger cousin, who had a long history of troublemaking.

"It wasn't me, Frodo, I swear." Pippin looked truly innocent this time.

"Maybe Boromir knocked a rock or something into the lake," Tasana attempted to defuse the situation.

"I'll get him," Aragorn said before she could volunteer, and walked off toward the prince's resting place, moving as silently and swiftly as only a Dunedain could. A minute later the two men returned, Boromir hiding a yawn behind his hand.

"I didn't hear anything. Maybe it was just a fish." He sleepily ignored the fact that very little besides pond scum could possibly survive in the polluted water. Boromir grinned knowingly at Tasana, and received a sharp elbow in the ribs from Strider.

"We will discuss this later," Aragorn growled. Tasana smiled ruefully and rolled her eyes out of her brother's line of sight. He was making up for thirty-eight years of ignorance of her existence in one night of overprotection. Tasana thought she might have accepted one of those earlier marriage proposals just to get some freedom from his dark mood, had they grown up together like this.

Of course, she hadn't spent that much time with her brother yet. About all she knew for sure about Aragorn was he had grown up in the North Woods under the protection of their mother among the Dunedain in Arnor, just outside the little town of Bree. He was at least ten years her elder, perhaps older than that, as even fellow Dunedain could not always pinpoint one another's ages without asking, yet still in prime condition of life. Strider was a master swordsman; that much was obvious.

The sight of something moving in the filmy water behind Aragorn jerked Tasana out of her chain of thought. The ripple in the shadows made her take an involuntary gasp and reach for her scimitar. "What's the matter?" Strider asked her, a concerned expression on his face.

"Frodo! Behind you!" she called, too late to warn him of the sickly gray-green tentacle that seized the hobbit's leg and picked him up high overhead. The last traces of grogginess disappeared from Boromir's face in the rush of adrenaline that surged through the group. The three of them advanced toward the lake with the men flanking Tasana, swords drawn. Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked on in shock, and then rallied with the humans, attacking the leviathan with the human dirks they used as swords.

Frodo, wrapped in several tentacles now, yelled for help as he hung over a toothy maw in the center of hundreds of the snakelike appendages. Legolas whipped an arrow out of his quiver, sighting down his ever-present hunting bow at the middle of the maw. The archer scored a hit in the dark mouth, causing the creature to loose a demonic shriek and shake its intended prey roughly. The swordsmen, joined by Gimli with his double bladed axe, hacked at any of the soft, soggy tentacles they could reach from the shoreline, beating back the clinging arms of the beast.

Aragorn leapt among the stumps that spurted black ichor, slashing at its head as well as the appendages that held Frodo captive. Suddenly the creature writhed, dropped its prize into Strider's waiting arm, and sank under the murky water fast enough to take the two down with it. Boromir threw his arm in front of Tasana to prevent her from diving in after them. For a few tense seconds nothing moved but the churning ripples in the hidden depths of the lake, then Aragorn surfaced, carrying a choking, but still breathing Frodo. The ranger set the small hobbit down gently, wiped his blade on his soaked pant leg, and sheathed his sword. The lake was still behind him.

"Aragorn!" his sister embraced him and nearly knocked him over in her exuberance. He steadied himself, resting his chin atop her head. "That was very, very stupid. Are you all right?" she pulled his head between her hands, observing him critically in the dim light.

"I'll live." He shook the water out of his ears. "How about you?"

"Perfectly all right, save the minor heart attack you gave me with those heroics of yours." She made heroics sound like a curse. The ranger gave her a smile in return to hers, and then loosed himself from their embrace.

"Frodo, how are you feeling?" Strider asked. The hobbit had stopped coughing up lake water, though he still looked awfully pale. Tasana sat down next to him, checking his arms for bruises.

"Fine, I suppose. Just a little beaten up." Frodo stood, brushing himself off while trying to allay his gathering friends' fears. "But that thing will be back. I know it will," he said with a fearful look toward the placid waters with their cover of fresh ichor.

"We must move on," Gandalf added forcefully. "It's not safe here." The others nodded in silent agreement.

Lighting a torch from one of the last logs they had brought for firewood, Tasana brought up the rear of the group's harried entrance into the darkened mines. Gandalf ran a hand over the end of his staff, causing the glasslike sphere implanted in the top of the thick wooden walking stick to give off a faint, steady glow. It was not enough to light up the dusty entryway, but the immediate space around the fellowship was now lit well enough.

"Hello?" Gimli called softly, then a little louder. His calls echoed hollowly back from the walls and ceiling. There was no other answer.

Suddenly Tasana heard a watery roar behind her. She drew the scimitar with one hand, the other on her torch as the creature from the lake reached one of its incredibly long tentacles through the doorway. Strider and Boromir cut off its entrance, slamming the doors on a quivering arm that reminded Tasana of a snake in its death throes. Other tentacles grabbed at the door and pulled it off its hinges, causing a small cave-in. Fortunately no one was hurt. The water beast roared outside the toppled doors, but it had no chance of getting past the fallen rocks.

"We cannot go back now," Gandalf said grimly. "So we must move onward."

"Of course, but where are your cousins, Gimli?" Tasana peered about with her torch. "I don't see any welcome party." In a corner out of range of the light of Gandalf's staff, the torchlight glared upon a rotting, spider web covered skeleton. It still had a few wispy hairs upon its head and chin, and clutched a chipped axe in its small bony, hands. Its breastplate was cloven down the center; crushed as if by some giant thumb. There would have been little chance to save that warrior, even if a trained healer had been nearby when he had been injured. Tasana guessed that his ribs had probably punctured every major organ in the poor fellow's body. "Gimli. You better come see this," she said in a flat monotone, trying to rein in her emotions as she always did around the dead and the dying. Tasana heard several gasps behind her.

"How could this have happened?" Gimli choked out.

"The dwarves dug too deep here," Gandalf answered the rhetorical question softly. "They let loose evils older than Sauron. This is why I was reluctant to use this route. We must move quickly and quietly. Come." He led them onward, down into Moria.


	10. Into Moria

Author's Notes: It's all Tolkien's. No, seriously. It is. Hmm, with revisions, Tasana almost just barely passes under the Bad! Sue radar, depending on how much leeway you'd give her. Nyaah. But still, the site's informative for any discerning reader and/or wannabe writer, so I'll include it just for kicks & giggles: http:oddlots. digitalspace. net /PPC/SueTestLOTR. html (Without the spaces, naturally.) Make up your own mind & tell me about it in reviews. Word of warning: dust bunnies, chewing gum, duct tape, and crazy glue may not be the best materials to do so with, judging from my experience. Props for the PPC, just because they keep my pride in check and my sense of humor very healthy. 

Also, if you're wondering about the song in the addition, no, I don't have words or a tune for it, but you filkers are more than welcome to put one together, if that's your thing. Yes, I know the characters metioned do not, according to Tolkien, ever meet. It's one of them funny AU things. All shall be explained in later chapters, or my prequel to this puppy, The Choices of Tar-Miriel. (Shameless plug, I know. Couldn't help myself.)

* * *

After finding a small flat landing on a staircase halfway through their journey that night, Frodo announced that he was hungry. The group hadn't eaten since that morning, so the proposition of a dinner break was greeted with plenty of enthusiasm, but they didn't stop for very long. They ate only enough to regain lost energy, as the dwarven skeleton still lingered heavily on their minds.

"How far is it to the exit?" Sam asked as they finished up their meal.

"Three or four days' journeys, if we aren't delayed by false paths." Gandalf adjusted his battered blue hat. Sam had a dogged look on his face, anticipating four or more days in the darkened passageways with the unknown forces that had killed the dwarf. "Don't worry so much, Master Samwise. If there is a path to be found, I shall find it. I came through the eastern passes once before this."

"Well, let's get started, then," Boromir said, jumping up from where he had been sitting. "I have a bad feeling about these caves, and frankly, the sooner we leave them, the better, as far as I'm concerned."

"I second that motion," said Legolas, putting out their small cooking fire. "So much for well lit hallways." He grumbled as the darkness of the stairwell enveloped everything but the light of the torch and Gandalf's staff.

"These stairs have survived since the days of Durin, though," Gimli parried jokingly, "so you must admit they are well built."

"Do you think that corpse has survived since the days of Durin as well, Gimli? There are things down there that don't care how well the stairs are built." Aragorn's comment soured their mood and stifled further conversation. Tasana glanced back at the menacing shadow among the dark reflections of her torch. He was probably right about the dangers of the mines, but she guessed her brother also badly needed sleep, and would not be fit company until he had had a full night's rest.

One other thing she had learned about her brother over the last few days: he never showed his weaknesses. Strider would march on stubbornly until he fell over from exhaustion, rather than hold the group up. He would bully others into keeping healthy, but paid scant attention to his own health if it got in his way. Aragorn was scared, even more deeply scared of these mines than Boromir and Legolas were. No one would ever get him to say so openly; Tasana doubted he would even admit it to himself. Yet it was obvious he was frightened to everyone else, so Strider was in a black, bleak mood. Not unlike how she might handle such a situation, Chev'yahna thought. Each with its own inscrutable thoughts, the two dark-haired shadows flowed amongst the torch-lit, brooding company.

Gandalf and Gimli, who were in the lead, stopped at major forks in their road, discussing possible paths and testing the air. Mostly dry, old, still, and stuffy, an occasional fresh breeze from a side chamber cleansed the air in the long, high-ceilinged main tunnel. They stopped in such a room off the central passageway for the night for the next two days, careful not to leave any sign of their journey.

It was probably best that they used very little of their supplies during these stops. The fire materials were running slim, and the torch Tasana had brought was burning dangerously low. They made good use of their light source throughout those next two and a half days; despite Gimli's reassurances of dwarven stonework, there were nearly as many holes in the floor of the mines as side passages in the walls, and the sheer number of those arches, bridges, ramps, and hallways was all but unthinkable. Despite the confusing network of walkways, Gandalf's path led unerringly southwest, rarely deviating from a straight line to the exit. They would usually go straight to sleep if they weren't on watch after those exhausting mile-eating hikes on tightly rationed food and water. They had found no streams fit to drink out of, and supplies of dried food were growing short.

Boromir and Legolas weren't the only ones whose nerves were raw and ragged from the caves. Frodo swore he heard an extra pair of footsteps behind them, and occasionally a hissing breath. Perhaps it was no more than a need for a real target to direct all her nameless fears upon, but amongst the light pitter-patter of the hobbits' bare hairy feet, the steady clomp of Boromir and Gandalf's boots, the barely audible catlike tread of Legolas, Gimli's ironclad stomp, Strider's cautious footfalls, and her own lighter step, Tasana could hear the smack of bare, flat feet against stone. Whenever the group stopped, the last pair of feet continued on for a time, too long for an echo, and a raspy hissing could be heard in the endless blackness behind them. Their pursuer was careful, though. It was never close enough to be caught in the torchlight.

"Gollum," Gandalf said as soon as Frodo mentioned his fears of a follower to him. "For good or for ill, the former ring bearer may yet have a part to play in this quest."

"Ring bearer?" Tasana sat up from where she had been lounging during breakfast, intrigued. "That's the first time anyone's mentioned a ring to me."

"That is the reason why we're headed for Mordor: to destroy the One Ring in the place it was made, the one place it can be unmade," Aragorn explained.

"But I thought it was lost." Actually, she had thought Sauron's Ring of Power was no more than a fairy tale, something her mother had used to scare her into behaving when she was a little girl, until now. After meeting her brother, Tasana was ready to believe almost anything. Unless she was greatly mistaken, that was Isildur's sword, Narsil, reforged at Strider's waist. It certainly was no orc blade like the one she carried. To think, the sword that had cut down the Dark Lord of Mordor was hanging that close to her, in the scabbard of the rightful heir to the lost throne of Gondor… and she was his closest relation. How did a simple maiden daughter of a merchant who wished for nothing more than the chance to hunt with the wolves get so close to this much power?

"The Ring was, for many years," Frodo replied; fingering an ornament on the chain he wore around his neck. Tasana thought she detected a hint of gold. "But then my uncle found it in Gollum's cave. He's a ruthless creature, that Gollum. He'd probably strangle us all while we slept, save he's too afraid of the light. A pity Uncle Bilbo didn't kill him."

"Pity? It was pity for that 'ruthless creature' that stayed his hand. Do you think yourself truly able to judge a being's character from one chance encounter?" Gandalf said sharply, causing Frodo to lower his head with shame. "We shall see what role Gollum has yet to play."

Tasana and the others, however, never wavered from their watch. Even Gandalf, despite his egalitarian words, seemed to let his eyes stray to the shadows behind the company for signs of an unwanted pursuer. _Perhaps legendary times call for even more suspicion than usual_, the woods-woman thought to herself.

They stopped in a guardroom off the main path their third night in Moria. Spider webs covered the dusty walls and a deep, uncovered empty well stood decaying in the center. After eating a small portion of the dwarven journey bread and having a sip of water each, the males set out their sleeping rolls and Tasana bundled up in an extra cloak as everyone went to bed.

Pippin was assigned first watch, but wasn't the only one still awake. Gandalf was dredging up old memories of Moria, trying to decide on tomorrow's path. Aragorn had moved Boromir to a dark corner and was making a vague threat about what would happen the next time he caught the younger man making calf eyes at the healer, something unpleasant that left plenty of room for imagination.

"Forgive me; I didn't know you had an interest in her." Boromir backed as far into the corner as he could, keeping his open palms between the tall, menacing Dunedain and his more vulnerable parts. More concerned about the looming, vengeful wraith in front him; neither Boromir nor Aragorn noticed the dark form behind him.

"He's my brother," the shadowed spirit said half exasperatedly. "Of course Strider has an interest." She reached over Boromir's shoulder and gave Aragorn a peck on the cheek. "I've handled men and orcs I don't like for the past twenty-three years. I can take care of my own affairs without your help, thank you, Aragorn."

"That's exactly what I was afraid of." He smiled at his sister, removing her hand from Boromir's shoulder. Tasana squeezed her lord's hand where she held it in the shadows.

"Just try to be a little more diplomatic next time, Strider. It would hardly do if my uncivilized big brother scared off a man I really liked, now would it?" she teased in return.

Strider didn't have time to reply. A sudden thump emanating from the center of the room caused all three to turn in that direction. Tasana couldn't help but notice how Boromir moved to shield her as they cautiously drew their swords.

"Sorry… sorry," Pippin said sheepishly between thuds, flinching at the drawn blades with each echoed clunk. "I… must have knocked a stone off of the side of the well." Had anyone been watching him, one would have seen that the young hobbit had purposely dropped the stone in his curiosity to see how deep the old well was.

"Well, next time throw yourself in after it and rid us of your incessant foolishness!" Gandalf snapped. "We can't afford any sign of our passage."

The tapping continued far too long; those reverberations in the deep could not all be echoes of the stone's fall. It sounded almost like a cryptic, evil signal. "That was a hammer," Gimli said when the noise died away at last. He and the elf had awoken at the sound of swords being unsheathed. "I'd know that sound anywhere."

"That rock probably just hit something at the bottom of the shaft," Boromir shrugged, sheathing his broadsword.

"Something that shouldn't have been disturbed," Strider muttered darkly. Gandalf replaced Pippin, who was thoroughly cowed, on watch and shook his head at the well. Tasana dropped off to sleep after sharing a concerned look with the men across the room.

They were awakened the next morning by Gandalf, who appeared to be in a much cheerier mood despite having kept watch half the night. "I've decided which path to take," he said brightly. "The path on the right leads in the wrong direction, and I don't like the smell that emanates from the center one." Tapping his hooked nose with a long, thin finger, his hawkish blue eyes shining with decisiveness and a little tired relief, the old wizard reminded Tasana of one of the village grandfathers sharing ancestral weather lore. "Always follow your nose; if there are no other signs," he said sagely.

"So the left path it is then. I hope for all our sakes you've followed your nose correctly, Gandalf." Legolas slung his pack onto his thin shoulders.

Gandalf led them up a winding trail for eight hours, with only two brief stops. At first the young hobbits had joked, laughed and sung to keep the gloominess of the dead, empty mines away. As the day wore on and the company grew a little shorter of breath, the dark, silent, cavernous passageway seemed to swallow their bright voices and reflect them mockingly, as if Moria itself knew how futile their efforts to hide their fears were. Among these echoes were less benevolent noises: the flapping of bare feet and the occasional ringing tap of some unknown metal.

"But come," Pippin laughed rather hollowly as he and his cousin paused for breath in the dim cavern. "We have been doing all the singing. Surely Strider or Master Legolas has some sweet elvish tune we have not yet heard." Aragorn shook his head gruffly, and the elf avoided the youngest fellowship member's hopeful gaze.

"I fear I am in no mood for singing in this dark land," the archer said, letting his gaze wander over the shadowed side tunnels, any of which could be filled with dangers yet unseen.

"What of you, Gimli? These passageways must have been filled with song in Moria's glory days. Might you know some song to keep the darkness at bay?" Pippin asked the dwarf who led the cluster along the wizard's path.

"I will make a fool of myself when that elf does," he replied, shifting his axe to his other shoulder and hurrying to catch up with Gandalf.

Shyly, Peregrin turned to the last two members of the company. "Mistress Chev'yahna? Do the Wargs sing?"

Tasana knew she would have little to offer the young hobbit, but she hated to disappoint him when all else seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Better to hear the false cheer of a warbling singer than the raspy breath that followed their trail. "They howl," she answered him, bringing her torch forward so as to better see Merry aiding his cousin with a pleading look. "But I know no songs fit for this company. A Warg sings in a chorus, or of its loneliness, but they've no songs for a single speaker to cheer her companions with."

"Gondor, too, sings mostly of war and death," Boromir forestalled the hobbit's eager questioning. "For we are a warlike people, living in dark times." Pippin's face fell, and Boromir chewed a nail, as if considering whether to bring something up. "There is, however," he started at last, with a glance towards Tasana with a devilish gleam in his eyes that could just barely be caught in the torchlight, "An old ballad of Dol Amroth that my brother was ever fond of as a child. I would sing it, but it is best when performed by a pair. Might you know 'the Song of the Seagull's Wing,' Mistress Chev'yahna?"

She did indeed, as her father had not forgotten his heritage from Dol Amroth, a land of seafarers and the Swan Knights, from which Boromir's mother had come. Nor had Tasana's own mother forgotten her history, which was more closely attached to that song than the sea-folk who dreamed of following the ship of the ballad's hero. But the healer was reluctant to admit to her knowledge, and not simply because even the raspy-throated Parcha'kahnsta of her wolf pack had a better singing voice than Tasana did. "By my Dunedain blood, I cannot say I do," the woods woman responded, warning Boromir of her brother behind her. The steward's son appeared not to notice her jerky head tilts in the dim light.

"It must be even more popular in Arnor than in Dol Amroth," he argued. "For the hero of the tale sired a kingly line that now dwells there." It was his turn to make eye contact with the ranger, offering Aragorn a challenging stare. "Or so the tales say." The tall Dunedain said nothing, seeming to draw the shadows more closely around himself as he returned Boromir's gaze.

"Come, Chev'yahna, you must know at least some of it," Merry pleaded with the reluctant healer.

Tasana sighed and acquiesced, hoping the song would at least postpone a fight between her brother and her lord. "I might be able to warble a few bars, if you'll give me the tune. But don't expect a she Warg to sound like a songbird."

"Oh, don't worry," Pippin reassured her. "Merry doesn't sound half so good now as he does once you get a few mugs of ale into him."

"You sound a lot better when I'm drunk, too," Merry teased him, giving his cousin a playful punch. "But, come, let's hear it."

"I yield the floor, Ragastion." Tasana gave her liege lord a mocking curtsy, and Boromir started the song, his voice deep and rich. The woods woman joined in at Miriel's lines in the song, her speech clumsy and faltering at first, but gaining strength as she sang of the lost queen's desire for battle and reckoning. She was by no means the best singer the hobbits had ever heard, but her voice, a harsh alto with little regard for key, carried forth the passions and depths of despair the doomed monarch had felt at leaving her country to its tragic fate, and the love and hope she felt once more with Palansül the Grayhavensailor once the captain, voiced by Boromir in sweeter, more vibrant tones than he had used for the queen's wizardly advisor, had carried her off to Valinor.

By the last chorus, Boromir was spinning Tasana in a circle, the young hobbits clapping them on. Their audience had grown from the two curious young ones, however. Sam was whistling along with the tune, and Frodo seemed to be concentrating on something more than his feet, although the eldest hobbit seemed too weary to look up. Tasana caught a grin flickering across Legolas's face, and although her brother rolled his eyes, Aragorn, too, seemed to walk taller after this tale of his ancestors. Gandalf smiled, murmuring, "Radagast always hated that song. But neither he nor young Palansül was willing to take credit for Miriel's recovery, and 'twas Palansül who commissioned the bard." The old wizard paused, thinking of his peers as his smile infected the others. "But whether Radagast admits it or no, Alistar is right. The old politician still does the best impression I've ever seen of Tar-Miriel." A more sober expression came over Gandalf's face as his reminisces turned to a more recent time. "I don't understand why the brown wizard warned me away from the order when I told him of the quest. Our leader, Saruman the White, has a right to know." The inaccessibility of the other wizards was a sobering reminder of how alone the group was, physically remote from their homes by this quest, cut off from sunlit surroundings by the cavernous darkness of Moria, and each trapped in its own mental walls from the companionship of strangers.

Aragorn insisted upon keeping rearguard, motioning Tasana and her weakened torch up head of him so his eyes would adjust to the near darkness. Chev'yahna herded the tired, footsore, but wary hobbits in front of her. Boromir and Legolas had unconsciously fallen into flanking positions about Frodo Baggins. The eldest of the hobbits had drawn his dagger. From the way its florid designs reflected the torchlight, Tasana could tell the dagger was of ancient elven make, one that would glow with a blue fire in the presence of orcs. She had heard of such weapons from some of her pack mates who had been freed from Mordor. The dagger's dim reflection of the twin light sources was a great comfort in the dark, twisting tunnels.

Gandalf and Gimli, up ahead, appeared unconcerned about their companions' nameless anxiety, but merely pushed ahead grimly. The wizard's glowing staff bobbed about holes in the floor and outlined the side paths, occasionally stopping and turning this way and that as Gandalf chose their route.

As they turned down yet another corridor, this one in better shape than most of the others, Tasana found herself panting for breath like the city dwelling hobbits, despite years of running with the Wargs. She wasn't the only one beginning to show the effects of long miles on a nearly empty stomach. Aragorn lagged behind, and Boromir had become too tired to grumble about the wizard's choice of roundabout paths anymore.

The corridor widened into a hall, soon becoming too wide for the weak torch to illuminate. Gandalf risked a brief flash of light, revealing three exits near the other end of the gigantic hall. This must be one of the great feast halls Gimli had told them about. Tasana had imagined it must have been very welcoming and impressive in its glory days, but now the open space only made her feel vulnerable to hidden attackers. "There used to be high windows to light these halls," Gandalf said as the light dimmed. "It must be night outside." The group had not seen the sun in four days. The wizard's observations heightened the forest dwellers' thirst for having warm sunshine once more upon their backs.

"How much longer until we get out of these caves?" Legolas asked no one in particular. He had been born and raised in the wilds of Mirkwood, east of Rivendell. None missed the dappled sunlight of the forest more than the sylvan archer.

"Mines," Gimli corrected him peevishly. "No underground stream could have created a hall as great as this one was during its glory days."

"Mine, cave, what does it matter?" Boromir snapped. "You're the only live dwarf we've seen since we left Rivendell. Where are your illustrious cousins, Gimli?" He looked as if he would have liked to continue, but a judicious use of Aragorn's elbow cut him off before Gimli's axe could.

"We should be out of Moria before the week is out, Legolas," Gandalf filled in the tense silence as Tasana and Strider moved to forestall the short-tempered fighters before their battle of words took on new weapons. Even a drawn hunting knife could produce a general brawl amongst the company right now. "I think we are just a little above and northwest of the other gate," the wizard continued. "That east corridor should take us directly to it. Let's rest here for tonight though. We still have a full day's journey ahead of us before we even leave Moria, and we are as yet nowhere near our ultimate goal."


	11. To Fall

AN: Oh, dear gods forgive me. To paraphrase an appropriate expression from "Lurtz in Love" by BondageOrc, I really deserve to be shot for writing this.  Fortunately, Tolkien owns LotR, not me.  Read & Flame, please.

Rating is going up to PG, just for General Sappiness and Random Acts of Sue.  

* * *

"Go to sleep, Lord Boromir," Tasana whispered at his side.  Strider had not argued when she moved to pacify the Steward's son.  "It would hardly befit a man of your status to become involved in a brawl with your companions; especially those who have quite possibly lost family in these dark halls."  Her father's tutelage for the business world had taught Tasana that nearly any statement sounded logical to a man if it appealed to his pride enough.  Her own youthful experiments on her father's apprentice had taught her that heavy fluttering of her thick, dark eyelashes could not only literally steal the pants off a man, but earn her rides into the South Woods even after her father had expressly forbidden it to her, as well.  Chev'yahna made as much use of her long lashes as she could in the dim light.

Boromir smiled at her, seeming to see through her flirtations and enamored with her in spite, or perhaps even because of her ulterior motives. "My status?" Boromir snorted.  He moved in on the healer, dodging her torch as he caught the surprised woman in his arms.  "You'll soon find I'm not much more diplomatic than your brother," Boromir said in a husky whisper, tasting her lips eagerly and running a hand through her dark hair.  "And leave off with that, it makes you look like you've dust in your eyes." He lightly nuzzled his nose against her shut eyelids before placing his forehead against hers, staring into her widened green orbs.  "I like them better open."

Tasana had felt winded after the daylong march, but now she was absolutely breathless.  She vaguely remembered the torch in her left hand, clutching it weakly as her last connection to her life before she had foolhardily agreed to accompany her lord on a deadly mission.  It was impossible for her to connect the proud, intrepid, and completely inaccessible amber-haired lord with the man who held her in his strong, warm arms that smelled of musk and armor.  Up close, the woods woman noted reflexively, she could make out the gray streaks within his hazel eyes in the flickering torchlight.  "My lord, everyone can see us," she said, bracing her free arm against his chest; attempting to hold onto her sanity one last time before surrendering her senses to Boromir's inviting presence.  

"Let them see."  He blew out the torch as her knees weakened.  Boromir picked her up and carried her into his bedroll.  "You need your rest as well, Chev'yahna." She needed his second kiss more than sleep, in her opinion, and felt subtly unfulfilled when he stood back up; though Tasana thought she would probably regret how far things had gotten already in the morning.  "I have first watch tonight.  I'll be murderously tired in an hour, so don't go through this whole 'my lord' nonsense when I return."  His smile promised everything, but required nothing from her yet.  

"Yes, milord."  She fell asleep with a bemused little smile on her face, enjoying the extra comfort offered by a sleeping bag on such a cold, dark night.  She especially enjoyed the musky scent deeply embedded in the sheets.

Tasana slept peacefully, never seeing the thunderous glare of her brother or the highly amused glances of Legolas and Gimli.  Boromir wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself, stalking around the exits of the hall and relighting the torch for warmth and light.  Everyone else had huddled against the western wall, trying to avoid the infernal draft emanating from the eastern passageways.  The hobbits had gone on to sleep, and Legolas and Gimli had finished chuckling at the young lover boy and had quieted down for the night as well.  Gandalf, who never seemed to need sleep, was muttering something unintelligible as he drew in the dust with his finger.  Aragorn was still glowering at Boromir, then rose from his sleeping bag on the guard's next pass, looking as if he were attempting to swallow his ire before doing something rash.

"That was a great thing you did for my sister," the older man's voice was surprisingly gentle. "Though I don't like your methods.  I will forgive you the public humiliation of my blood kin and your direct disobedience of my order not to attempt to seduce my sister this once, so long as you understand that I do not want you that close to her again until the two of you are engaged, at least." 

"So you wouldn't object to me marrying her, then?" Boromir looked intrigued by the notion.  He had not planned out any lasting relationship with the healer; tonight's encounter had been conducted on a sudden impulse rather than any rational thought. Aragorn studied him for a long moment, and then turned his gaze toward his sister sleeping easily across the room. 

 "If Chev'yahna wants this, I will give you my blessing," he ventured after a pause, sighing with a bittersweet acceptance.  The ranger faced Boromir again, his lean features tired but understanding.  "Don't disturb her, Boromir, but do go on to bed.  We haven't seen so much as a rat since we came into Moria.  There's no real need for a guard.  I have a couple of extra blankets you can use."  The Dunedain took him companionably but firmly by the shoulder and steered the Steward's son to a corner far from the sleeping woman, where the younger man would have to step over virtually every member of the company to reach her.  There was a veiled but very real edge in Strider's voice and manner that assured Boromir that the ranger would not tolerate him setting up a bed anywhere else, even if he proposed tonight.

The next day they saw sunlight.  The high windows were facing west and were dimmed by years of dust and disrepair, but after three days of walking through darkness that was unrelieved by anything save the light of a pair of low-burning torches, the weak light of false dawn was almost enough to blind the group completely.  "While we're all tired, I think we'll rest better if we get out of Moria today," Gandalf said over breakfast.  "It is a long hike to the exit, but I believe we can get there in one day if we move quickly."

"I definitely don't want to spend another evening here," Boromir agreed.  "I swear I heard something moving around in the next passageway last night."

"Really?  I'm surprised you could hear anything over you and your lady friend purring yesterday evening.  It must have been coming from under the floor; you certainly couldn't have heard any vibrations through the air with that wondrous moaning you two were sharing." Legolas raised an eyebrow, and then ducked as Tasana took a half-serious swing at the archer with a pan she was cleaning.  

In a small celebration of their return into sunlight, Samwise Gamgee had fixed up a hot breakfast for the company.  It may have only been reheated sausages and dried fruit and vegetables, but with Sam's knack for cooking and the potent garnishing of hunger, the food tasted like a gourmet dinner. "Please, Mistress Chev'yahna, that's my best skillet!" Sam cried.

"Sorry, Sam.  That elf's thick head isn't worth breaking one of your pans over.   I'd probably ruin it beyond repair without leaving any significant impact, and that would only discourage some of the finest cooking I've had in quite some time, while that silly elven tongue continues its nonsense unabated.   I suppose I'll just have to use his bow to beat a little bit of sense into him instead.  Frankly, I'm surprised you could hear us over your nattering last night, Legolas," she said lightheartedly.  

The archer smiled and rose to her gibe.  "One must explain things thoroughly to you slow-witted mortals.  I fear you won't understand if I give you the only the bare details.  Strider's quick enough after his fashion, I suppose, but the rest of you were unfortunate enough to lack an elven upbringing.  You act as if you were raised by raised by Wargs, for all the social niceties you show, Chev'yahna."

Tasana met this comment with a mocking curtsey.  "Does it show? At least among the wolves one learns when to keep one's mouth shut and mind one's own bloody business."

 "As one can tell from the way you joined this Fellowship, Chev'yahna," Legolas ribbed.

"But of course, how could I leave nine poor men such as yourself without someone with an ounce of sense to see that you don't hurt yourselves with your own bows and eating knives?" The elf laughed, as he had been an expert archer long before the woods- woman's parents had been born. 

"Don't worry with him, Chev'yahna," Boromir said in a stage whisper, slipping an arm about her shoulder in a casual gesture of possession.  "He's simply jealous because the very sound of his name sends elven girls fleeing to the Gray Havens."

 "More like their fathers send them there in their worry," Aragorn stuck up for his old friend, his earlier black mood dissolving in the sunshine.  "Legolas is quite the lady-killer in Mirkwood."

"You're one to talk about being a lady-killer, Estel," Legolas bowed slightly, blushing at the tips of his pointed ears.  "You have all of Rivendell in an uproar with your flirting with my cousin Arwen Evenstar."  Strider muttered something half-apologetically in Elvish to this, but refused to add anymore to the banter.

The group packed up and continued onward through the twisting passageways, teasing back and forth.  The sunlight, combined with a warm meal, had lightened their spirits as well as their way.  They turned yet another corner, approaching a very dusty doorway that despite the cobwebs was still in decent condition. The door was slightly ajar, revealing a light that seemed blinding after the dimness of the hallway.  Gandalf entered, and then stopped suddenly with an indrawn breath.

"What's the matter?" Merry asked, confused and a little frightened at the delay.

"I've found Gimli's cousins."  The wizard's voice echoed in the sudden silence. The others crowded around the door, jostling elbows as they let the dwarf pass in front of them.  With a heartrending cry, Gimli ran to the base of the great stone coffin in the middle of the room, weeping as he knelt to his cousin, the Lord of Moria, one last time.  

Frodo bowed his head from where he stood at the door.  Another of his uncle's grand companions had left on the journey from whence there was no return.  How many of the younger hobbit's friends would join the dwarf lord before this quest was over?

In hopes of learning more about the plight that had befallen this hardy group of dwarves, Gandalf lifted as reverentially as possible an old, battle-scarred tome from the hands of another corpse who had not been as fortunate in burial rites as its lord, whose tomb it and the other dwarven bodies had probably died defending.  These were not as clean of rotting flesh as the bare skeleton the company had encountered in the entrance, but the open skylight alleviated the stench of the dead corpses.  Both dwarf and orc were present; both races were armed to the teeth in death.   

Flipping through the delicate pages that were often burnt, ripped and folded, the wizard began reading aloud the fate suffered by the last group to enter Moria.  The party of dwarves had lost much to enter Moria, both through the monster in the lake and the perils of the dark pathways.  But the dwarves in this chamber of records had obviously not been killed by a fall.  Tasana recognized the haft of an orc spear when she saw one, and many of the bodies sported such spikes in their chests.  

"Drums… drums in the deep," Gandalf continued.  "We have barred the doors, but still they come for us. We cannot get out.  We cannot get out.  They are coming…" the wizard shut the book with a heavy thud, only to hear it echo up from the floor: once, twice, then steadily beating.  

"That's not funny, Pippin.  Stop it," Aragorn snapped, the smallest hint of desperation rising in his voice as he saw that neither the hobbit in question nor anyone else in the company was doing anything that could cause the steady, swelling thump.  

"It's not me," Pippin said, disgruntled about being falsely accused.  The drumming continued, getting louder now.  

"Orcs," Boromir spat. "We've waltzed right into the middle of a stinking orc trap."

"Quickly, help me with this door," Strider called, picking up a chipped and discarded battleaxe with a long haft.  

"What about the back door?" Tasana asked, glancing behind her wildly.

"Leave it unbarred," Gandalf told her, drawing his sword.  "We may have to use it for escape."

Legolas and Aragorn positioned themselves by the door, unlimbering their bows.  "Why don't we leave now?" Merry asked, quivering with fear.  

"Would you rather a small room you can defend yourself in while the orcs can only reach you twenty at a time, or a thousand orcs upon your heels while we're racing through places yet unknown?"  Gandalf checked the barricades on the entrance one last time before backing to the rear door.

"I'd rather live.  If it's more possible this way– well, we haven't lost a group member while following your council yet."  Merry gulped, and then joined his fellow hobbits in a small, square ring in an effort to keep orcs off of one another's backs.  All of them currently were facing the drums at the door, oversized daggers clutched nervously.

Tasana was hardly half the shot her brother was, much less the equal of the eagle-eyed elf, so she flanked the archers with a drawn scimitar.  Boromir, who stood at Legolas's side across from her, flashed the healer a wan smile.  Gimli had taken a position atop the tomb and was unlimbering his arms with slow, broad swings of his axe.  Tasana could hear it slice through the air in a reassuring counter-rhythm to the rapidly rising drums.  "Let them come," Gimli growled.  "They will find one dwarf in Moria yet who still draws blood."

Their hearts were throbbing in time to the deeply thundering drumbeat now; and Tasana could smell the death that came with it, ever rising, ever closer.  Suddenly the pulsating drums stopped, and for a few tense seconds all she could hear was her brother's shuddering breath as he sighted down his shaft.  Then the calm before the storm was broken as an orc scimitar hacked into the barred and reinforced door.

Aragorn and Legolas held their arrows until the orcs had chopped a convenient firing hole into the massive doors that they could shoot through from halfway across the room.  The elf drew the first blood, making an impressive hit by taking an orc through the throat through a hole not much wider than his narrow, long fingered hand.  Strider took out another while Legolas reloaded his bow in two blinks of an eye.  Of course for every orc the two archers took down, there were a hundred more to take its place in hacking a quickly expanding breach in the entrance to the room.

The orcs had now chopped enough of the door away to return fire, and Tasana found herself ducking for cover.  Strider and Legolas had not missed a shot yet, but the orcs merely trampled their dead and dying in their bloodlust.  Now Tasana and Boromir had their share of targets as well, busying themselves with keeping swordsmen off their archers until the elf and ranger could reach their daggers and broadsword.  

The healer certainly surprised and taunted the orcs with her very presence.  Not many of the twisted goblins had ever gone toe–to–toe with a swordswoman before and very few would ever do so again.  Seeing the scimitar in her hand, many mistook her for a dark friend of Mordor until she attacked them.  

Gimli was defending the tomb of his cousin from atop it, cutting down every orc that came in range of his flashing axe.  For such a wiry old man, Gandalf was surprisingly quick and agile with his staff and elven blade.  Even the little hobbits were holding their own in the rush of battle with only occasional aid from Boromir.  Strider had drawn his sword and was now hacking his way toward the dissolving ring of hobbits, as well.  Legolas kept his bow in hand, darting along the walls and firing shot after shot into the orcs.

Suddenly a gigantic half troll broke through the splinters of the doors, roaring in pain as the orcs goaded it into battle.  The troll started snuffing after Frodo, picking up a broken spear as it lumbered after the hobbit.  The others rallied and tried to distract it, but the hairless, half blind creature tossed the little men aside like rag dolls.  

Tasana raced toward Frodo's side just as the troll put its massive weight behind a powerful thrust of its broken haft that sent the hobbit flying across the room. Once more she had been too late to protect him from danger.  She attacked the troll anyway; attempting to hamstring the monster while its back was turned.  Tasana barely saw the catlike archer jump to the giant creature's shoulders and shoot an arrow at point-blank range deep into its thick skull.  She only vaguely observed the orcs fleeing from her fury as she fought her way to where Frodo laid unmoving against the far wall.  Tasana never noticed the others gathering for a last stand about her and the still form of the hobbit and driving back the orcs.

Only as the last orc fled the chamber and Sam Gamgee collapsed weeping beside his stricken friend did the last of the battle haze wear off.  The floor was littered with orc bodies, but Frodo was the only member of the company to have received serious injury.  "Can ye heal him, Mistress Chev'yahna?  Is he gonna be all right?" Samwise asked.

"I don't know, Sam," she answered truthfully.  "Get that head of yours bandaged, and I'll see what I can do." She pointed to a nasty looking cut on Sam's forehead before examining Frodo.  

The shaft had hit him hard in the chest and she had not seen any armor on any of the hobbits, yet Frodo didn't seem to be bleeding.  His breath was weak but steady and he still had a pulse.  Incredulous, Tasana pulled back his shirt to examine the wound and saw a coat of mithril underneath.  Even more shocking, an unadorned gold ring lay atop the armor of true silver.  It did not take a large stretch of the healer's imagination to guess what that ring upon its chain was.

Tasana sat back on her haunches, ignoring the others' worried questions for a moment as she regained her bearings.  Not trusting her voice, she pointed to the hobbit's chest as he let loose a little groan of pain.

Her brother laughed with relief.  "If it were known hobbits had such hides, all the hunters in Middle Earth would forsake the woods for a chance to ride to the Shire."

"And all their arrows would be in vain," Gimli added proudly. "Mithril! I haven't seen such a coat in ages."

"He's still weak.  That thrust would have killed a wild boar."  Tasana cut through their relieved joking. "Help me carry him, Strider."  The sound of drums had begun anew.

"Now is our last chance for escape.  Run, I will block the door."  Gandalf didn't have to tell Tasana twice, but Aragorn looked as if he wanted to object to the wizard's orders.  Even Sam, Pippin, and Merry, who couldn't conceivably defend themselves against the orcs, got a stubborn glint in their eyes.

"You can't possibly hold it by yourself, Gandalf," Boromir argued.  "Let us stay and help."  Gimli and Strider were nodding in agreement.

"Your swords are of no use here.  Now, run!"  The wizard waved the reluctant men down the stairs.  

"Come on, Aragorn.  Gandalf knows what he's doing." Tasana had to use poor Frodo as a lead to drag the ranger away from the sound of screaming orcs and the sudden heat of magical fire blasts.  The wizard and the woods-woman managed to browbeat the other men into following her down the stairs into the darkness beyond.  They stumbled along as fast as they could in the dark, for the sun did not reach here and no one had bothered to remember the torch.  

There was a loud boom accompanied by a flash of light that momentarily lit the cavern they were racing through. Then the wizard was suddenly among their number once more, running haggardly behind the group to catch up.  "I have delayed them, but there are forces amongst the orcs up there that could destroy us all in an instant," he warned them, obviously spent.

Although Gandalf was tired, the group made better time as a whole with his staff to light their way around hidden pitfalls.  Soon they were no longer totally dependent upon the wizard's staff, however.  The deep pits shone with a light of their own, a red-orange liquid fire that showed Tasana why her pack mates lived in perpetual fear of burning light and made it the prime symbol of their most terrifying god. 

They jumped yet another hole in the floor to watch in horror as the place where they had been standing collapsed into the blazing pit.  A piercing shriek sounded from behind them, causing Frodo to moan once more.  

"A Balrog!" Legolas whispered; brown eyes widened in terror.  The orcs were after them again, in much greater force.  It looked as if every goblin of Mordor and Moria had crowded into the mob, but that was hardly what had unnerved the elf.  Behind the horde of orcs was the worst thing Tasana had yet seen in Moria: a creature of fire and shadow.  

"Get across the bridge."  Gandalf directed the rest of the company to a long stone overpass with no walls or handrail.  At the other end of the bridge stood a gate with a teasing, faint sunbeam showing through the crack.  The chasm it spanned was so deep they couldn't see the river of fire that surely flowed beneath it.  

The monstrous creature flapped its dark bat-like wings, scattering the orcs in its path with a fiery whip and a sword of darkness.  It fixed its burning eyes upon Gandalf and shrieked its challenge once more, cracking its whip. 

"You shall not pass."  Gandalf turned and faced it after the rest of the company stepped off the bridge, thumping his staff against the stonework, as the creature grew nearer.  Tasana could sympathize with Boromir's apparent frustration at not being able to do anything to help the wizard.  Gandalf looked very small, very ridiculous, and very, very old as the demon Balrog faced him in the middle of the bridge.

Neither the company nor the massive horde of orcs dared intervene in the struggle between the titanic powers on the bridge, yet no one dared look away from it.  Somehow they all knew in the deepest part of their hearts that the future of the little company would be dependent upon this one supreme moment; whoever lived or died afterward would have little impact upon the ultimate destiny of the Ring of Power.

The Balrog flashed its whip toward Gandalf, only to have it repelled by the wizard's glowing sword.  "You cannot pass. Go back to the shadow from whence you came, dark flame of Udun. You shall not pass."  The creature swung at Gandalf with its now glowing red sword; and the white elven blade of Gandalf blocked the blow and shattered the burning steel.  The wizard thrust his staff into the bridge once more, and the stone gave way under the demon.  Gandalf teetered on the edge of the chasm for a long, breathless instant, steadied himself, but then fell as the creature's flaming whip caught his heel. 

"Gandalf! No!" Tasana rushed to the edge of the broken abyss, catching his slipping hand.

"Run, Tasana!" the fallen wizard gasped commandingly, and then added more audibly for the rest of the company: "Fly, you fools!"

Tasana felt a great weight on her arms, more than she could bear to hold much longer.  The Balrog flapped its useless, shadow-thin wings desperately, attempting to use Tasana's pity to save its own flaming hide and destroy the rest of the company in its malice.  Then Gandalf let go of the healer's hands, slipping away into the darkness.  Chev'yahna felt Boromir grab her waist and pull her away from the chasm, felt him run her out of Moria; she heard the thrum of Legolas's bow as the lull in the battle ended, but could not see through her tears until they had gotten far, far away from Moria and the bridge.  

* * *


	12. Enter Lothlorien

A/N: Right. Not mine. Tolkien's.  R&F, please.

Rating: PG for Sappiness and Random Acts of Sue.  

* * *

Aragorn had done his best to heal physical wounds, but only Boromir's gentle touch and quiet voice could rouse Tasana from her sorrow.  "Get the map, Legolas.  We must reach the elves in Lothlorien by tonight," Aragorn directed.  The Dunedain knew the territory the best from his wandering youth, and hid his depression fairly well, so Strider had picked up the lead after Gandalf fell to certain death.  

"Give us a night, Aragorn.  We've gone too hard, too fast, and lost so much.  Your sister can hardly see through her grief," Boromir argued, laying a protective hand on Tasana's shoulder.  

"If we rest even a single night here we'll have a host of orcs upon us in the morning," Strider replied soberly, hoisting his backpack.  "Will the wolves be available, Chev'yahna?  We made much better time with their help."

"No, the packs dare not hunt in elven territory," she choked out between sobs.  In the short time she had known Gandalf; the wise old wizard had touched Tasana more deeply than few others could ever have done.  His quiet, commanding form, for all his eccentricities, had been a pillar of hope and an anchor of wisdom on this mad quest.  Tasana did not have his power, though.  His death had taught her that her strength was not enough to overcome evil.

"Come with me, Chev'yahna," Boromir said gently, guiding her along.  As they passed through the hills, her tears slowed, but she was not yet prepared to walk without Boromir's comforting hand on her shoulder.

Gradually the drab gray stone of the near lifeless foothills was replaced by rolling grassy knolls and stray, dwarfed broadleaved trees.  After a hike that lasted the entire afternoon and most of the evening, the party entered the edge of Lothlorien.  "The Golden Wood where the trees never lose their leaves," Legolas breathed.  "It certainly puts my home in Mirkwood to shame."

The great golden boughs were beautiful, Tasana privately admitted.  They were not her familiar South Woods, but the smell of the forest breeze lightened her spirits and heightened her senses.  Including, unfortunately, her seer's sense.

Though she had barely picked it up since the night he had first met Mithilira, the taint of treachery upon Boromir had redoubled in potency.  He leaned toward Tasana to kiss her lips, but she recoiled from him irrationally.  "What's wrong, Chev'yahna?" he asked anxiously.

"I- I thought I saw something behind you," she explained lamely. "It's gone now; whatever it was." 

"A huntress doesn't survive very long by spooking at every hare's shadow that passes her by."  Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  "What was it?"

"Just a deer, most likely," Tasana gave her brother a guilty smile.  "I get a little jumpy after an orc raid."  She could not dupe the ranger that easily, but her expression told him to hold further questions until they had more privacy.  

Boromir was no naïve fool, either.  He looked more than a little hurt by Tasana's sudden brush-off, but backed away gallantly to conserve his dignity, kissing the woods-woman's hand as a lord might kiss that of his equal's unmarried sister.  No man plotting to destroy the company and its mission would give her that calf-eyed look that melted her heart, Tasana thought to herself as Boromir slipped away to the rear of the group.  

The threat of treachery she sensed could not be directed at her; perhaps it was not even planned.  Boromir didn't look as if he was even aware of such a possibility.  The warning in her heart was meant for another in the group, but Tasana did not know whom. Boromir bore no one any serious grudges.  

Certainly, he and Aragorn had clashed several times over her and the Ring.  Boromir had mentioned his wish to wield the Dark Lord's own weapon against Sauron out of a desire to save Gondor on many occasions. Strider cautioned him against the wild, ravaging seduction of the One Ring, but the Steward's heir continued to stare at the chain Frodo wore about his neck with a suspiciously dark glint in his eyes.  Boromir had also gotten into shouting matches with the dwarf, but it was neither for Gimli nor Aragorn that Tasana truly feared.

"I doubt we'll meet up with the elves tonight.  We had best find some sturdy trees away from the road to spend the night in."  Aragorn cut into her dark musings.  Glad for the rest; even the hobbits that came from a race that had not built a two-story home since the first century did not complain of vertigo.  Tasana, who had spent half her life sleeping in trees, found the firm, solid branches beneath her cured a feeling of homesickness the woods-woman had not realized she had been suffering from.  

That night she dreamed she was running through the South Woods in their spring glory, the pack at her side and the company before her.  Something marred the tranquility of the woodlands, though.  Tasana looked toward the sun and instead saw an eye of fire; a flame-red, burning, lidless eye that boded death for all who saw it.  Sauron.  

As soon as Tasana recognized the symbol of the Dark Lord, it blurred and split into two cold blue elven eyes, at once beautiful and terrible to look upon; eyes of ice that could test and judge a person better than Mithilira's nose.  They looked upon the lady Warg and saw pointless death, upon Strider and saw hidden suffering and sleepless nights.  The eyes saw slavery in Merry and Pippin's futures, and fearful, hopeless flights in store for Sam and Frodo, fraught with pain, treachery, and torture.  The frosty gaze saw self- imposed exile and heartbreak in Legolas's future and uneasy wanderings in Gimli's.  The heartless, unfeeling eyes began to turn upon Boromir to pronounce his doom, which would surely be death, but Tasana cried out, distracting the eyes from their intended target.  The icy blue irises looked toward her sharply; and Tasana screamed in fear as they examined the depths of her frail soul, judging her fate.

"Tasana Rivermerchant, you were not meant to come here." A disembodied voice spoke, fraught with the power and grace of a queen.

"Tasana, Tasana!" her name echoed mockingly from the trees.

"Tasana, wake up.  You're on the next watch."  She rubbed her eyes to find them looking into a pair of gray irises in a face not unlike her own.  

"Strider.  Boromir will betray us, but he will not - must not - die for it." She could no longer keep the warning to herself, not after that dream that felt so much like prophecy.  Tasana felt she could count on her brother to believe her and prepare for what might come; besides, she would have no better opportunity to tell him in secret than during the changeover of the watch.  

"How do you know?"  Aragorn looked surprised at the sudden revelation, but not quite as surprised as Tasana might have liked.  What about the Steward's son could make the ranger so suspicious of Boromir?

"I've smelled it upon him.  Do not attempt to stop him; otherwise he may hurt you.  I know he will come to his senses eventually."  She warned her brother, laying a cautionary hand on his arm as Strider contemplated the sleeping younger man with a protective, dangerous glint in his flinty eyes.

"I trust your judgment, Chev'yahna, but if he tries to hurt you I will be forced to kill him." Aragorn squeezed her arm softly, protectively, almost possessively.  "The same goes for any other man."

"Boromir would never do anything to harm me, Strider, you know that." She shook her head, smiling gently. "Good night, Aragorn. Sleep well."

"That's hardly reassuring, Tasana.  Between you and Frodo, you'll probably be predicting all nine Nagzül and Sauron himself riding down upon us within the week." He kept his tone casual, but the Dunedain was frightened by his sister's prophecies and the hobbit's fears.

"Not yet, Strider.  They have not found us yet."  She returned his squeeze before slipping out of the tree and down to the forest floor.  The familiar birds of the day had already sunk into an uneasy sleep, but Tasana could hear an owl hooting in the distance.  After it stopped, she heard another noise: the soft pad of a hunting cat, or an elf.  "Gimli, did you hear something?"  She asked the dwarf with whom she was sharing watch.

"Just an owl, but it's flown away now." He dismissed her concern.

"No, something besides that."  Tasana was reluctant to put a name to the noise; it was so faint it might have simply been a product of her imagination.

"I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox.  I think I would have heard anything important, Chev'yahna," he said stubbornly, tossing his axe from hand to hand.

"The dwarf breathes so loudly I could have shot him in the dark," said a voice to their left.  A light haired archer stepped out from the underbrush.  He had his bow in hand, but looked more amused than threatening.  

"Legolas?" Gimli blurted disbelievingly.  The archer was obviously an elf, but he didn't resemble the Mirkwood prince.  

"My name is Haldir.  Welcome to Lothlorien, travelers."  Tasana couldn't resist flashing Gimli a look that screamed 'I told you so.' Another pair of elves came into their line of sight, chatting animatedly with Haldir in their own tongue.  Tasana wished Legolas or Frodo was there to translate.  

The first archer turned back to her and Gimli.  "The lady of these woods has been expecting you.  She will have guest rooms prepared for your group if you will follow us."  He paused as one of his companions gestured sharply at Gimli.  "I'm afraid the dwarf will have to be blindfolded on the way in to Lothlorien proper.  None of his kind has been freely admitted into our land since the days of Durin."

"We must discuss this with the rest of our party," Tasana said diplomatically, attempting to forestall Gimli's rising ire.  "Please give us until morning."

"We do not allow travelers to pass this far into the wood unaccompanied.  My brother Rumil will stay here with you until you decide.  Until morning, then," Haldir said just as smoothly, gesturing to one of the other elves.

"Gimli, why don't we go up and inform the others of the elves' kind offer?  We could use a real bed for once." Tasana gave the remaining archer a slight bow, and then shimmied up the tree after Gimli.  

"They say this forest is ruled by an elven witch," the dwarf was telling the sleepy, nervous hobbits that were already suffering from their racial fear of heights. "A witch who can pull all who see her eyes under her spell."

"Gimli, they say the same thing about the South Woods, save the sorceress is a human with Wargs for her familiars." Tasana interrupted his frightening hearth-story with a laugh.  It was a yarn best saved for small children, but the dwarven fairy tale of the witch of Lothlorien brought the icy blue eyes of her dream uncomfortably to the forefront of Tasana's mind.

Gimli paused, studying the expression on her face.  Cocky, confident, and at peace, there was still a small hint of fear, depression, and indecision in her green eyes that Tasana could not hide.  "How fortunate then, that we have a sorceress on our side, as well."  The dwarf did not sound as if he were entirely joking.

Everyone knew it would be best to accept the elves' offer to insure good will toward their quest and safe passage through the forest.  The people of Lothlorien patrolled the wood to keep their treelike homes safe from invaders, but those who did not live in the forest could quickly become hopelessly lost. 

The elves were certainly relaxing their security for the company just by allowing Gimli to enter as far as he had, but even Legolas agreed it was not fair that the dwarf would have to enter the Golden Wood blindfolded.  The tensions between elf and dwarf were old, but pointless and little more than a stumbling block in this war against the Dark Lord.  In order to appease both the elves' concerns for safety and Gimli's grumbling over racial unfairness, Frodo suggested letting the elves blindfold them all.

"What, and be led like prisoners of war into the home of our allies after the men of Gondor have spent their entire lives protecting them from the threat of Mordor?" Boromir asked haughtily, his temper flaring. Tasana and Aragorn shared a look and rolled their eyes skyward.  Tasana supposed Boromir had a point, but his arrogance was uncalled for.

"You remember those orcs in Moria, Lord Boromir? The Balrog? Neither your troops nor my wolves could guard Lothlorien from those." She pointed out.  "If they truly are our allies, as you are so quick to bring up, they deserve our trust and respect for their customs, even if these do not immediately suit our needs."

"True enough, Chev'yahna," Boromir inclined his head.  There was still a glint of stiff-necked hubris in his eyes, but he was willing to give up the argument for the chance to come back into Tasana's good graces.  "I spoke in haste.  I will agree to the blindfold if you insist upon it."

"As will I, though I intend to hold our guide personally responsible for every rock that causes a stumble," Gimli growled, thumbing his axe.  He repeated this to the elven archer waiting below; who waited until they had reached the path among the trees beyond the river to blindfold the group.  The trail was smooth, but contained many twists and turns, requiring each member of the company to require an escort.  When Haldir, who had returned with the other guides, told them to remove their blindfolds, a wondrous sight stood before their eyes.  

Even in the dark the city in the trees of Lothlorien was breathtaking, with warmly glowing lights visible in every tree and tall, aesthetic marble statues and fountains in the clearings.  Houses and stairs were carved as if they naturally grew out of the trees that way, and not a single rotting plant marred the beauty of the forest, with its tall, willowy, golden leaved trees that Tasana had never seen the like of.

"It is truly a fantastic sight for weary eyes, but currently I would much rather the sight of a good, soft mattress with plenty of pillows and a warm blanket."  Boromir said, slipping an arm around the bemused woods-woman's shoulders.  When he thought her brother wasn't looking, he added softly in her ear, "Preferably with you between the sheets."  He stole a kiss once more.

"We shall see what we can arrange, my lord Boromir." She fluttered her eyelashes at him playfully before deepening the kiss.

"Do you two ever stop?" Aragorn removed Boromir's hand from where it had drifted down to the dark-haired woman's waist.  

            "I can't wait to meet this Arwen of yours, Strider.  Legolas tells me you're just as naughty around her." Tasana gave an impudent grin to the taller man, whose tan, grim face was now undermined with a slight, sympathetic twinkle to his eyes, and laid her head upon the southern lord's chest.  

            The Dunedain knew his efforts to be useless, but gave it one more try while trying to hide his indulging smile.  "As your elder brother, it is my duty to supervise your interactions with a potential suitor.  Just so long as you know your limits, Boromir."  Tasana's warning flitted through the ranger's mind.  He could only hope she had not forgotten it.

            "I do," the younger man answered him, holding his beloved woods-woman close and rocking her slowly.  

            A guide arrived then to lead them to the bathhouses.  Tasana separated from Boromir and Aragorn with a quick kiss for each, and then found a warm tub of water waiting for her.  Glad for the chance to soak sore muscles and sleep in a soft bed, she barely gave a thought to her wolf sense or the eyes of a witch that night. 


	13. Prophecy and Lies

A/N: Please do not mistake the opinions of the Sue for those of the author. The Warg just writes what the voices in her head tell her to and lets her mini-Balrog check the grammar. There is one who calls itself Tolkien, but that voice rarely says anything comprehensible. Mostly it just screams unintelligibly. It belongs mostly to that one, though. And to the one that bangs its metaphorical head against the wall and calls itself PJ. Please review and let the orcs in your head come up with the flames.

Rating: PG for serious Sueage. Forgive me, milord!

* * *

The next morning she took the luxury of changing into a clean pair of breeches, a long-sleeved tunic, and her heavy cloak to ward off the chill in the early spring air with no need to hurry before any males needed her bower for a private space for personal business or fears of an orc attack were realized through too long of a delay. She left off her stiff leather armor, knowing that the woods would be well protected. Brushing the tangles out of her short, thick hair with her fingers, she asked the elf maiden standing outside her room where the rest of the company was residing.

"They stay in a guest house not far from here," she replied in heavily accented common tongue. "Lady Galadriel wishes to meet you today. Come, I will guide you."

"Galadriel…" Tasana murmured, thinking once more of the eyes that had haunted her dream. She followed the maid to the bottom of a wide, delicately crafted stairway that spiraled up into the leafy tops of the ancient trees that had not yet bloomed this year.

The men had been waiting on her. Frodo and the rest of the hobbits looked very relieved to have spent the night in real beds instead of a tree. Legolas was socializing with another elf, talking rapidly in his native language, occasionally laughing or singing a snatch of some melody unknown to Tasana. Frodo would join in intermittently, speaking haltingly in the elven tongue. Sam watched them raptly, attempting to absorb every element of the beauty of Lothlorien. Gimli looked a little haggard, but much better than he had since the group had entered Moria.

"Boromir! You've been up pacing all night again, haven't you?" Tasana embraced him, checking his face for signs of weariness. She was not happy with how close he looked to collapse.

"You accuse me justly, I'm afraid. Guilty as charged." He laid his head upon her shoulder.

"You worry too much, my lord. You've too much to worry about." She ran her fingers through his honey-brown hair, trying to ignore the lines around his eyes as they kissed.

"We'll discuss this later." Aragorn nudged his sister in the ribs with an elbow as a pair of royally dressed elves came down the stairs. The male was easy enough on the eyes, his silver hair belying his ageless, almost youthful face with smoky eyes of the same shade as Strider's. He was dressed in plain gray robes, but held himself as an elven nobleman. The lady at his side was dressed as a meditative sun to the lord's quietly powerful moon. Her hair was the color of the old leaves upon the trees illuminated by the morning's first light in early spring; her snowy white dress was accented with golden brocade. Her eyes were closed as if she were deep in a trance as she descended the stairs, yet her grip upon the lord's guiding arm was loose and unaffected.

"Where is Mithrandir? I wish to speak to him," the gray lord asked for Gandalf. Before any of the company could speak, the lady – Galadriel – opened her ice blue eyes.

"He has fallen… in Moria, upon the bridge of Kazad-dum." Aragorn nodded, speechless as the rest of the company. Gimli quickly averted his face, muttering something unintelligible. "But come, you have not yet eaten." Her welcoming smile did not quite touch her eyes.

Through the meal, Legolas and the hobbits made small talk and spoke of their adventures, with Boromir occasionally adding a wry observation or Strider interrupting for a clarification. At first Gimli remained closemouthed, but Legolas's gentle prods soon had the reticent dwarf speaking freely about his elven hosts. Tasana said little, volunteering no information and answering questions as taciturnly as possible without being outright rude. She flashed her brother the wolf sign for 'stay quiet,' willing him to understand.

No one mentioned the company's final destination or the Ring. The way Boromir described it; the group was accompanying him back to Minas Tirith. Although the elven lord and lady were allies, no one was ready to enlighten them as to the true purpose of the quest in public.

There was no mistaking those eyes for Tasana. The Lady Galadriel had some sort of uncommon power that allowed her to work her way into others' dreams and thoughts. Despite Gimli's earlier warnings to avoid her eyes, he now seemed enthralled in his conversation with Galadriel, as if she had already wormed her way into his heart.

Tasana watched the lady steadily, rarely turning her eyes from her constant vigilance upon the elf, attempting to divine the witch's reasons and methods purely from her frosty expressions. The human woman was the only one besides the enchanted dwarf who dared meet the sorceress's eyes for any length of time. Aragorn bowed his head and shaded his eyes with a hand whenever he spoke directly to her. Boromir would blink owlishly and hood his eyes, studying the floor. None of the hobbits would meet her face; they addressed her feet or the air around her as often as Galadriel herself. Even Legolas, an elven noble himself and as personable as most of the rest of the company combined, seemed uncomfortable in meeting his kinswoman's icy gaze.

This lady had certainly amassed quite a bit of power, Tasana admitted to herself. A sorceress of the wood and a leading member of a highborn family, the elf could give Tasana knowledge that her pack seeress would find useful. A few weeks in Lothlorien would have Boromir well on the way to recovery from the horrors of this journey, as well. Perhaps Galadriel was not the frozen - hearted witch Gimli had described her as; the dwarf seemed have to fallen under the enchantment of her eyes and looked much improved for it. Gimli's earlier warning echoed in the woods-woman's mind, interrupting her thoughts. Tasana reexamined her last observation. "_… All who see her eyes fall under her spell_." Was that not what was happening?

Tasana shook herself, breaking eye contact for a moment as she steeled her mind. All of that was what the sorceress wanted her to believe. There would be another time after this quest was completed to return with Mithilira at her side; the wolf would be able to pick up scents and feelings that the human huntress was incapable of detecting. And it only took one look at Boromir's exhausted, restless face to assure Tasana that he would not sleep peacefully here or anywhere else until he had walked the streets of the White City once more.

There were many wounds to tend to yet, the healer thought to herself, studying the stretched smiles on her company's faces. Frodo's eyes had been unnaturally wide after the troll had stabbed him, and he often turned them upon the company as if he expected danger at any moment, particularly from them. The younger ones were too quiet. Merry and Pippin were attempting to keep the gentlemanly stiff upper lip around the ladies, but Gandalf's death had hit them even more deeply than it had Tasana. Aragorn had quietly taken over command, and although Strider seemed well suited for leadership, he had concentrated so much upon the rest of the group that he ignored his own needs. Even with the clean river the group had followed into Lothlorien and the hare Legolas's bow had provided, Aragorn still rationed food as closely as they had needed to in Moria, his own more closely than anyone else's. Tasana could have sworn this was the first meal in days the ranger had eaten that consisted of more than a single bite of cram and a swig of water. Even those "meals" had been few and far between since the wizard's death. Yet another symptom of the group's meltdown, the healer thought to herself, a meltdown that Tasana would have to find some way to prevent.

After breakfast, which had been big enough to satisfy even the hobbits' voracious appetites, Legolas, Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin went on a tour of the Golden Wood with their host, Lord Celeborn, dragging Gimli reluctantly along to leave the three humans alone with Galadriel.

"I know what you have foreseen, Tasana Rivermerchant," she said, causing Chev'yahna to exchange looks with her confused brother, who shrugged innocently. Neither of them had used her real name in public, not even amongst the company. Boromir's gaze flitted between all three, looking thoroughly mystified and slightly hurt as he saw the recognition of the name in the healer's green eyes. "I know what you have sensed; I have felt it as well. But I did not cause these things to happen, so you must learn to trust me, Lady Warg."

"After that earlier attempt to turn us from our quest?" Boromir stood up, knocking over his chair. "Don't lie to me, witch. I know that vision was your doing and meant to lure me away from completing our mission. You have failed, _Lady_ Galadriel. Men of Gondor are true to their word. I will not abandon my company. The One Ring will be destroyed," he growled. Tasana could literally see his hackles rising. Had the elf tried to worm her way into everyone's minds? Whether Galadriel wished them ill or not, it would be best to avoid a confrontation with her until they knew for sure.

"Be at ease, my dearest lord, and let me hear what she has to say." Tasana attempted to soothe him, only to find herself facing the brunt of Boromir's angry suspicion.

"Have you found your coven-sister then, _Tasana?_" He spat her name like a curse. "What witchery did you cast upon us, foul sorceress, to allow you to join our fellowship? What charm did you blind us with to let you so close to your master's ring? With what spell did you steal my heart, only to break it?" Boromir suddenly looked close to tears. "I love you, Chev'yahna; I loved you with my whole heart. Yet you could not even trust me with your name." He turned his back on them, walking stiffly to the door.

"Boromir…Boromir, wait, I-" Tasana started after him, overcome with a desperate need for his gentle touch. No physical wound could have hurt her as much as his words.

"Let him go, Tasana." Aragorn stopped her. "He needs some time to himself. He will return when he is ready." Strider held her tight for a moment, letting her cry on his shoulder. "What things have you foreseen, sister?" He stepped back, his gray eyes piercing her green ones.

"Dangerous times, Aragorn. Sorrow and suffering upon all of us. I saw Boromir–" She looked over first her brother's shoulder for the Steward's heir, then over hers in a futile attempt to read the expression on Galadriel's face, which was as indecipherable to her as the elven language- "I saw him close to death."

"I saw him dying." Galadriel's voice was as cold and emotionless as her eyes. "But that was before I knew that you had joined the fellowship upon their quest. You have changed the course of fate, Lady of the Wolves."

"Perhaps it needed to be changed," Tasana shot back. "I am no lady though, simply a merchant's daughter. Why do you persist in addressing me as one of the nobility?"

"The king's sister, no matter her father and upbringing, is truly of noble blood. As is the alpha of the seer-Wargs." Galadriel lectured her as if she were a small child.

Tasana chuckled darkly, returning to the table. "No matter our blood, my brother is not yet King of Gondor. And if we do not complete our mission quickly, there shall be no Gondor left to rule over. Furthermore, I am just a human the pack mistress has taken a liking to, no higher in the hierarchy than a yearling pup. If you are going to name my supposed titles, you have as yet forgotten the future wife of the Steward of Gondor." Her velvety tone did not hide the embittered, cynical bite in her voice.

"You may marry Boromir yet, Tasana," the faintest trace of a smile crossed the elf's frozen countenance. "But he will not inherit his father's position. This I have foreseen with no small amount of certainty."

Tasana laughed aloud. "This is definitely a place for amusement. We may have to stay a few days yet, Strider," she said sarcastically. With that, she turned and left the room, stalking off to find Boromir.

"Your sister carries much evil within her, Aragorn." The Dunedain nodded remorsefully, saying nothing as he looked toward the door. "She is not the only one, though. All of you suffer from this burden." The call of Galadriel's eyes brought Strider's face to hers.

"It must be destroyed, though, Lady Galadriel. I agree absolutely with Boromir upon this point." He paused, remembering the words another lady of the elves had told him in a time of weakness, words that had become his mantra for courage and strength. "I am Isildur's heir, not Isildur. I will not make the same mistake as my forefathers. Through me, Isildur's bane, the Ring of Sauron, will be destroyed."

"I understand, Aragorn, but at least rest here in peace and comfort for a few nights. You push your companions too hard, too fast. Not even you can keep this pace for long."

Aragorn recognized the truth of her words, but as the ranger's nickname implied, Strider was anxious to get back on the road. "We will stay a fortnight and no longer. We must keep moving."

Galadriel nodded with cool comprehension, knowing she would get no better offer. "Very well, then." She watched this last man, who carried the hopes and futures of so many of the free peoples walk out her door.


	14. The Darker Side

A/N: Once again the characters belong to Tolkien. The insanity is mine.

Rating: PG for Sueage and a hint of steaminess, here folks. It's het, it's vague, it's chaste, but if it's not your cuppa, feel free to skip. This is probably my worst chapter, anyway. Please feel free to read and flame

* * *

The other man, at that moment, was wandering aimlessly in the woods, blind to the beauty that surrounded him as he bitterly contemplated another beauty. _What had ever made me fall for her anyway?_ Boromir asked himself sullenly. The answer came far too easily to his mind. There had many girls that had pursued him, openly or otherwise, but none of them had the inner strength of the swordswoman. The Steward's heir would sooner take a wooden practice blade into battle than cosign himself to one of those sniveling vixens. They were blunt, easily broken, insubstantial, and utterly worthless to a solider such as Boromir. Even worse, most tried to hide themselves under a layer of false innocence, a pretense that further shortened the man's temper. Boromir knew that despite his father's extensive political training, he was at heart a very simple, direct personality and social subtleties of the court only bored the Steward's heir.

There were the shield-maidens of the neighboring kingdom of Rohan, of course, and while Boromir generally approved of the fighting women, they simply seemed to lack the inner turmoil that drew the warrior like a moth to a candle. There was nothing about the Rohan women that required his protection, nothing to strike the spark of love. While the horse-lords' warrior maids were certainly weapons, their balance was unfamiliar to him, and left him feeling useless.

And then Chev'yahna had entered his life. She had immediately reminded Boromir of her weapon: a thin, curved blade that was strong enough after its fashion, but one that required a careful handler if it was not to break and poison its bearer as well as his enemies. The woods woman had an amazing amount of hidden reserve, but she needed the aid of one who would fight by her side and love her without question in order to find it. There was a time when Boromir had thought he could be such a one, but the revelation of her true name had caused him to turn away from her. He knew he should return to the city and beg her forgiveness for his burst of temper, but his pride would not allow him to do so.

"An unfamiliar forest is no place to walk alone, Boromir," a voice he knew too well came from above and behind him. He stopped but did not turn as he told her to leave him alone. Continuing on, he heard the crackles of tree branches occasionally overhead as he walked through Lothlorien.

"Tasana, let me be!" he spun and shouted angrily when he couldn't take it any longer. There was no answer but a few birds singing in the distance. Then Boromir heard another noise, one to which he would have preferred the elven witch's cold voice.

A raspy breathing issued from the treetops, punctuated by a soft _gollum, gollum_ every few breaths. Boromir drew his sword, scanning the treetops for the maddened old ring bearer. He thought he saw glowing yellow eyes reflect the late morning sunlight in a tree limb along the path. He hacked at the offending branch with his sword, but only a sparrow flew from the tree. The hissing noise continued, now moving away from him. His eyes widened in fear. What if Gollum was after Chev'yahna? Boromir flew back down the path, wishing he had paid better attention to his surroundings. He called her name until he was nearly as hoarse as Gollum. He heard something drop softly from trees, landing behind him. He turned, brandishing his sword and fearing the worst.

"Why didn't you just say you wanted to duel, Boromir?" Tasana's voice was silken, tempered with bitterness as she reached for her scimitar, but she found herself wrapped in a giant bear hug before she could get a hand to her leather scabbard.

Boromir's sword lay dropped and forgotten on the ground as he kissed the welling tears from her face. Tasana wrapped her arms about his neck, stroking his hair as he murmured indistinct, heartfelt apologies for his earlier burst of temper. She traced the salty path of his tears with openmouthed kisses, needing no words for either apology or forgiveness.

Boromir felt her quiver in his embrace and understood, letting his hands slide up and down her spine. He tasted her lips once more, sliding his tongue into her mouth. Tasana pulled him closer, moaning with pleasure as her hands found the edge of his breeches. As he left off his exploration of her mouth long enough to rise for a shuddering breath, she murmured his name against his throat. "Boromir," she repeated. "I love you."

She played with the tie to his cloak, revealing part of his chest. "Oh Tasana. My Chev'yahna. I thought I'd lost you." He felt the blood rush to his manhood as she let her cloak drop to the ground, exposing her narrow shoulders to the wind. She may have been dressed like a man, but Tasana definitely felt like a woman, her firm flesh yielding with surprising softness against his body.

"I am yours, my lord, my Boromir. Take me." She lowered herself to their cloaks, unbuttoning her shirt. He took her hand and pulled her back up.

"Not here, my darling Chev'yahna. I heard Gollum in the trees. Perhaps once we get back to a comfortable bed…" He kissed her deeply. Tasana was willing to wait for the promise contained in that kiss. Boromir cleaned and sheathed his blade as Tasana rebuttoned her shirt and shook the leaves out of her hair. "Forgive me for not lending you an arm as is befitting a lady, but I fear I would likely forget a platoon of orcs right now, much less Gollum, if I were to touch you." His smile made her knees weak.

They headed back to the elven city, speaking very little for a completely different, though not unrelated reason as to their silence upon leaving it. They never made it to Tasana's room, however. Aragorn caught the two young lovers as they entered Lothlorien, demanding to know their whereabouts. Tasana attempted to hide Boromir's condition from her brother, but the ranger was not fooled by her explanation of how she had "convinced" Boromir to return to civilization.

Strider could not quite hide his understanding smile as he told Boromir to leave his sister alone. "I trust you know about the uses of Maiden's Fancy and Sheeproot, Tasana? I have some in my pack if you need it," he offered. A mock-horrified expression came over the healer's face as she watched him dismiss her lover.

"Of course I know the uses of those, Strider! But what is a man doing carrying around birth prevention herbs?"

"Sheeproot is an effective painkiller and Maiden's Fancy helps against disease when brewed correctly, if you must know," he answered smoothly, not allowing the young woman to knock him off balance with words or playful shoves.

"I don't need them, Aragorn," she said more seriously. "Boromir is a man of true valor."

Her brother nodded, stroking his beard. "So far. Do you still smell treachery on him?"

"No. Yes. Maybe." She sighed, heady with new memories. "All I can sense in his arms is his manliness, and what it does to me. I love him, Aragorn. It confuses and dulls my senses to the outside world, but heightens them where he is concerned. And yet I still can't know half of what's going on in his mind. I can't say one way or the other about Boromir right now, not with any certainty. I'm just too crazy about him."

Strider was once more convinced of the futility of his efforts, but the ranger had never let impossible odds get in his way before; he was not about to let it start stopping him now. "Try to wait until he proposes at least, Tasana. For me?" He wasn't any good at begging. He had tried everything else he could think of already, though, so it was worth an attempt.

"All right, Aragorn," she shook him off with a dry laugh. "At least if we coordinate our efforts, you'll have me married off by the time we reach Gondor." She didn't sound as thrilled about the prospect as Strider would have expected.

"And what would be so wrong with that, my dear sister? You don't have to say anything for a fool to tell that you're in love." He kept his tone carefully casual, hoping to find out why she was so surprisingly uneager about the logical action to take, considering her feelings for Boromir.

"I'm just not ready yet, Strider…" she trailed off, tucking a stray raven lock behind her ear. "It isn't really anything I can explain, but the she-Warg knows her time and nothing the hound or her brother wolf will do can rush her in her proper course." It was something she could explain, after her fashion. Just as Aragorn had been scared of entering Moria, Tasana was deathly afraid of a serious relationship. While the abandoned dwarven mines had taken Gandalf from them, the woods woman feared her loyalties, already stretched thin between her father, her homeland, and the Warg pack, would snap her mind if they were extended any further. She did not trust her ability to shoulder another role in life, and she could not bear to fail those she loved. Better to let them find another way than for them to come to trust her with a responsibility she could not handle, even if Tasana risked disappointing her loved ones.

"I'm not going to force you into anything, Tasana, but I don't want you abandoned in the woods with a newborn." He caught her hand in his, giving her an understanding squeeze.

"Hey, I can always count on the King of Gondor, right?" She gave him a cavalier smile that he could not help but return as he nodded. "Plus I'm never truly abandoned. The Wargs and I look out for each other."

"True enough." He held his sister tight a moment. "Just remember I'll be watching you two." Aragorn let her go.

* * *

That night after Boromir returned to the room he shared with Aragorn he started pacing restlessly. Again. "At least pretend to sleep until I go to bed." The ranger threw back the sheets on his bed exasperatedly. Strider tapped the younger man gently on the shoulder. "What's troubling you?"

"It's a little bit of everything, Aragorn. Your sister. Gondor's peril. Mostly it's my inability to really do anything about either of them." The Steward's son paused, sitting down heavily on his bed as if collapsing under his hidden burdens. Strider sat down next to him with a sympathetic look, not saying anything, but waiting for Boromir to unload. "Have you ever seen Minas Tirith in the morning? The silver and snowy white towers reflecting in the sunlight while the pennants snap in the early western breeze? Ever heard the great silver trumpets welcome you home, Strider? That memory is just about the only thing besides Chev'yahna that keeps me going anymore. But often I fear it is only a memory; I fear I can never return to my home. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?"

"I've been there once." The wistful, flowery way the Steward's son described the White City made Aragorn wish he remembered more of that trip. He had stayed with his kin in the South Woods during that time, just outside the city. He had been no more than nine or ten years old when his mother had taken into the city, with its crowded streets and noisy people. He would have bolted the first time he bumped into someone, had he known which way to run. His mother's survival laws had rubbed off on him though, so Aragorn had held on to her hand for dear life, probably half crushing it in the process.

Strider had been quite overwhelmed by the gigantic buildings and dusty cobblestone roads filled with more people than he had ever seen before in his life. Surely there couldn't have been that many people in one place, he had thought in childlike astonishment, even if all the Dunedain clans had gathered together. Yet even the sheer mass of people had not bothered the young ranger as the absence of trees. A huge old elm near the center of Minas Tirith stretched its limbs over the gate, as if reaching for its kin beyond the city.

The only other tree that Aragorn had seen was the dead White Tree, the tree planted by his ancestors during their kingship. It was the only one of its kind, found on a snowy mountaintop and transplanted in Gondor with the founding of the line that had brought about Isildur, according to the local legend. It had wilted and died with Isildur's death, and was no more than a dried husk when Aragorn had first seen it. It was said an offshoot of this tree would be found with the return of the king, in the wilds where the first one had been discovered.

Places with a scarcity of trees still bothered the ranger, but he had become more comfortable with the other aspects of city living over the last thirty years. "Don't worry, we'll get there yet, Boromir. I'm sure of it. How's your family holding up, you think?" He nodded as the Steward's heir continued on.

"My father is a good man, Aragorn, but the people don't trust him as they once did. He looks to me to put things right. My people need me to protect them." He paused, staring pensively into the nothingness in front of his steepled hands. "My brother offered to come in my place to Rivendell, but Fairamir is still too young for this journey. Sometimes I wonder if any of it really matters, though. The more I learn about Mordor, the further I go with this company… the less I can truly hope to do on my own." His eyes, still focused upon nothing, widened slightly as a shiver of went down his spine. His thoughts were evidently no longer on his family in the White City, save perhaps what their fates would be if the quest were to fail.

"You're not alone, Boromir. Legolas, Gimli, the hobbits, my sister and I, we're all doing what we can to help save Gondor." Strider reassured him.

"I know." He sighed, leaning back with all the sluggishness of a felled tree. "And yet how will we ever get the Ring to Mordor in time to cut off Sauron's attack? Even with an army at our back we have no hope of defending Minas Tirith from his forces."

"We'll just have to sneak Frodo into the Black Tower faster then, won't we?" Aragorn gave him a half smile.

"To his death, you mean. To all our deaths. And nothing will hold that hobbit back from his path save his own death." Boromir was gravely serious. He sat up and looked the Dunedain in the eye. "I swore I would go with you, but this is pure folly, Strider! Pure madness!" He leapt to his feet, beginning to stalk the room restively once more. "If Frodo would but lend me the Ring I could defeat Sauron once and for all. Why won't you let me use it to help us? The One Ring causes us so much pain and suffering now, but in the right hands-" it wasn't hard to imagine whose hands Boromir spoke of. "It is a gift." He smiled, and a slightly insane light glinted in his brown eyes.

"Don't speak to me of madness when you talk like that, Boromir." The sympathy that had shown in Aragorn's eyes was now clouded over with a darker, more menacing look. His voice was soft and dangerous, a sword dipped in ice as he stood looming over the younger man. "You are not the bearer of the Ring because you would not be able resist its temptations." Neither man wore a sword, but Strider could not have been any more intimidating if he were armed to the teeth. The Dunedain ranger was gone. In his place stood the King of Gondor. "Don't force me to separate you from it further because you cannot control your temptation.

"I have been very lax about guarding my sister's honor so far because you have shown self-control. If you lose that self-control – around anything – I will kill you with no regrets. Don't count on Tasana's love alone to save you from me."

Boromir's eyes went very wide. He shook himself, whimpered "yes, my king" timorously, and bowed quickly and stiffly before backing a hasty retreat to the door. He went as fast as he could without breaking into a run, but Aragorn's long stride cut him off.

The Dunedain dropped his fearsome mask at the apparent rout of the younger man's pride, revealing the weary, burdened countenance beneath before returning to the facade of the wise, sympathetic friend. "Now go to bed, Boromir. Else I shall become really angry." He gave him a self-conscious half smile, which Boromir sheepishly returned.

"I was sounding foolish, wasn't I?" He didn't quite meet Aragorn's eyes.

"Yes. I'll attribute it to your lack of sleep if you don't ever do that again." While Strider hoped that all there was to his sister's warning had passed with today's outbursts, something in the young lord's refusal to meet his eyes told him this latest topic would return, not necessarily with Aragorn.

"I won't. I don't think I could stand another shock to my system as great as that one was." Somehow the ranger did not believe him.


	15. That Which Must be Left Behind

Insert usual disclaimer here: Tolkien's, not mine.  And Galads gets it worse just for literary effect; hopefully I haven't ragged on her too much.

* * *

As Strider and Boromir drifted uneasily off to sleep, Frodo was awakened by light footsteps outside his room.  Tiptoeing quietly out the door as to not awaken Sam, Frodo followed the ghostly figure that had disturbed his sleep.  Sam turned over, mumbling in his dreams.  He blinked as torchlight crept in from the hallway.  Rubbing his bleary eyes, the hobbit caught sight of Frodo's back as he turned down a corridor.  Shutting the door behind him, Sam stumbled off after his friend.  Frodo left the dormitories like a man under a charm, Samwise tottering sleepily – but increasingly warily – behind him.

They passed through the woods along dark, winding deer trails, illuminated only by the light of the waning moon.  The white clad will-o'-the-wisp paused by a pair of statues lining the trail, and the twin basins in the stone elf maidens' hands suddenly flared with firelight.  The specter passed through into the hollow below.  When Frodo followed it down the rough natural steps, he found Galadriel drawing water from a spring.  The only other feature to the round, rocky hollow was a small silver basin in the center.

"Will you look into the mirror, Ring Bearer?" she asked, turning around.  Up until now she had given no sign she knew she was being followed.  "Or what of you, Samwise Gamgee?"

Frodo turned back toward the steps.  Hiding behind the western statue, Sam guiltily stuck his head out into the path, blushing in the firelight.  "Well, I really would like to see some elf magic an awful lot, Lady Galadriel… you sure you don't mind?"

"Go right ahead, Master Gamgee," she smiled slightly once more, the expression not quite reaching her eyes.  "This term is strange to me, as your people use it to describe both what the wizards and I work and the evils of Sauron, but I believe this would be considered the magic of the elves." She poured water from the spring into the basin and Sam leaned over it, gasping.

"What do you see, Sam?" Frodo asked him.

"The Shire, Mister Frodo!  But not all's well there. That Ted Sandyman's cuttin' down trees he shouldn't.  Those have shaded the mill lane for ages.  I wish I could get at that dangfool Ted; then I'd fell _him_!  There's some devilry at work in the Shire, Mister Frodo, I gotta go home and stop it."  Sam looked up from the mirror, saddened and enraged.  His family had cared for the trees and gardens of the Shire for generations.  To tear them apart wantonly was to tear away his heart.  Sam wasn't much for intellectually stimulating conversations, but Frodo had always liked the younger man for his honest heart and sense of decency.  It was painful to see him in such distress.  

"The mirror shows things that are, things that are, and some things that may yet come to pass.  Not all that it shows will happen, Samwise Gamgee, if you stay true to your quest." Galadriel explained.  No trace of emotion was present in her voice, but perhaps the lady wasn't the unfeeling witch Gimli had characterized her as.  Perhaps.

"You're probably right, as usual, Lady Galadriel.  My ol' gaffer used to always tell me 'it's the job that's never started that takes the longest to finish.'  We'd best get started on this quest again."  Sam's smile twitched slightly at the corner of his mouth.  Like Boromir, he would not rest as easily until he had seen his home and confirmed its safety with his own eyes.

Galadriel gave him another cool smile in return.  "Your grandfather is a wise hobbit, young Master Gamgee." She turned to Frodo. "And what of you, Frodo Baggins?  You have never asked to see magic.  Do you wish to look into the mirror?"

"Would you have me do this, Lady Galadriel?" He asked tentatively.  If the mirror could help him on his quest, it would be worthwhile to see what the future held.  Yet it had only brought grief, worry, and second thoughts to Sam.

"No, Frodo.  I will not encourage you either way.  Sometimes what the mirror shows is useful, other times it is misleading.  It is your choice."

Frodo stood quietly for a moment, musing over her words.  "I will look into it." He said after he worked up his nerve, quietly forceful as he always was. He bent over the mirror; and the stars reflected in the liquid covered silver blurred and went gray.  Out of the darkness Frodo saw the faces of his friends in the company, one by one, appear and then fall away, into the water's hidden depths.  He saw the Shire, his homeland, with all its beautiful old trees torn down by orcs.  The plain but respectable hobbit holes of Bagshot Row were being ransacked, and the peaceful citizens of the Shire fled in terror before their tormentors.  

Frodo saw the friends and neighbors of his youth being hauled through the black gates of Mordor in chains. The Tower on Mount Doom, in the center of Mordor, was a black claw that rent the smoke filled sky.  Frodo's gaze traveled up the endless raven columns, past the sharp ebony peaks that stood miles above the dead landscape surrounding it, up to the very top of the tower where a lidless eye of fire looked down malevolently upon the destruction and terror it had caused, pleased with its own vileness and yet unsatisfied with the scale of its wickedness.  Already titanic amounts of evil were done in its name, yet the Eye of Sauron would not be sated until the entire world was dominated by its will.

Frodo leaned further over the mirror, perversely attracted by the sight of the eye.  The One Ring slipped out from beneath his tunic, as if it longed to return to its maker and one true master.   The eye had seen him now, the hobbit realized too late.  Harsh Dark Elvish words rang in Frodo's mind, causing him to tremble with fear.  The Ring dangled tauntingly over the fiery image of the eye, swinging on its thin metal chain.  Smoke rose from the water as the phrases on the edge of Frodo's comprehension took on the form of a rushing, deafening chant. Frodo found he was unable to look away from the eye, powerless to break the Dark Lord's spell.  He cried out as something knocked him away from the mirror.  

"Mister Frodo! Mister Frodo, are you all right?" Sam clutched his shoulder, shaking his arm.  

"I'm fine, Sam."  Frodo put a restraining hand on the frightened young hobbit's arm before he threw Frodo's joint out of its socket in his anxiety. 

"I know what you saw, Ring Bearer."  Galadriel's voice held all the concern of a block of ice.  "That is what will happen if your mission fails."  Her hands were clasped before her loosely, and Frodo noticed a silver ring inset with diamond on her right hand, and suddenly the hobbit knew what to do with the Ring of Power.  Now that Sauron had seen him, it was sheer folly to try to sneak it into the Dark Lord's kingdom.  Elrond may not have been able to hide the One Ring, but Galadriel had experience with hiding such things.

"Lady Galadriel, you carry a Ring of Power all ready.  You would know how to keep the One Ring safe from Sauron, wouldn't you?" He asked her hopefully.  Sam looked amazedly at Galadriel's hand.  Obviously the younger hobbit had never noticed her ring, either.

"My ring does not carry the taint of evil that yours does, Frodo Baggins.  The three made for the elves were always well hidden, and they were never touched by the Dark Lord's hand.  Sauron's blood and spirit were poured into the One Ring.  It will not be hidden from its master, as my ring was."  She fingered the white stone set in silver upon her right hand, murmuring part of a poem as old as the One Ring, a poem Frodo knew too well:

'Three rings for the elven kings under the sky,

Seven for the dwarf lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for mortal men doomed to die,

One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

In Mordor where the shadows lie.

One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,

One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them

In Mordor where the shadows lie.'

Two of the lines were inscribed in Dark Elvish upon the otherwise plain gold band of the One Ring, visible only under intense heat.  Frodo took the chain off his neck and proffered it to Galadriel. "If you ask it of me, I will give you the One Ring."

The icy elven sorceress took a step toward him, a glint of sorely tempted surprise showing in her once emotionless blue eyes.  "You offer it to me freely," she said softly.  "I do not deny my heart has greatly desired what you would give to me.  Yet the evil that was devised long ago works in sundry ways, and will continue whether Sauron himself stands or falls." Suddenly a change came over her face, and the witch appeared to be clad in armor, deadly and radiantly beautiful.  "In place of a Dark Lord you would set up a Queen!  And I will not be dark but beautiful and terrible as the morning and the night.  Radiant as the sun and fair as the snow upon the highest mountain.  Dreadful as lightning in the harshest storm and stronger than the foundations of the earth.  All shall love me in despair!"  Her ring caught the starlight, illuminating her and darkening the surroundings as she stood before the startled hobbits, tall and worshipful, terrifying and exquisite.  

She laughed, and the light faded.  Galadriel stood before them as she had before, but her plain white robes held no ornamentation, her autumn blonde hair was in disarray, and her blue eyes, no longer dark and terrible to look upon, held a true glimmer of laughter and hope.  "And so I pass my test.  I cannot take the Ring, Frodo.  Lothlorien may be swept away with time, but my people and I will survive in the west, beyond the sea."

"Now we just have to hope we pass ours," Frodo said with humorless mirth, still too shocked by the sorceress's trial by fire to convey true emotion.  Sam blinked and gaped helplessly beside him, unsure of how to proceed.

"You will, Frodo Baggins.  You are wise and brave, and most importantly you are able to resist the temptations of the Ring."  Galadriel smiled, and for once it touched her eyes.  

"I still think you oughta take the Ring, Lady Galadriel.  You'd give those diggers a real what-for.  You'd make those folk pay for their dirty work."  Sam said, reassured at the elf's sympathetic smile.

Galadriel shook her head at Sam's comment, and then said with a sad, slightly regretful light in her eyes, "Alas, that is how I would begin, if only I would stop there.  Yet it is late, so let us speak no more of the Rings of Power or dream visions tonight."

* * *

The next few days passed peacefully enough, with only Boromir and Tasana's affair to disturb the calm of the Golden Wood.  Aragorn had recruited the aid of some of the elf maidens to help keep watch over his sister.  Tasana was kept too busy discussing herb-lore, hunting, and learning bits of the elven language to seek out a private place with her lord.  Strider could not, of course, keep them totally separated, but he kept a sharp vigilance upon Tasana and Boromir during public interactions.  

The Steward's heir was looking better rested, was in brighter spirits, and was even more eager from a stolen kiss now that Aragorn was keeping him away from Chev'yahna most of the time, with similar constant activity.  Boromir never developed the knightly adoration for Galadriel that Gimli did, but even the lord from Gondor was forced to admit that the sorceress had done her best to help their fellowship by the end of their stay in Lothlorien.

And Galadriel's best was certainly top notch.  The company that had entered the Golden Wood as suspicious, grieving individuals who had allied only because extenuating circumstances had forced them to left Lothlorien as close friends united for a common cause.  Legolas and Gimli, who had been making poorly veiled derisive remarks concerning one another all the way through Moria had formed an especially close bond, unusual enough considering their vastly different personalities and even more so for the history of their forefathers.  They still poked fun at one another, but it was obviously in much lighter spirits than before, when Strider and the rest had thought it only a matter of days before the elf and dwarf went after each other with steel.

This was not to mean that all the problems between group members were solved.  Aragorn could not lead the company and maintain his constant vigilance upon his sister.  Frodo, although at first glance friendly and companionable with the rest of the group, was even more aloof as he sat thinking by himself at nights, thinking of the images in Galadriel's mirror, her temptation by the Ring, and what these boded for the rest of the group.

Before they started out along the river, heading south, Galadriel met them at the river in a boat carved with swans.  She had restocked their bags with lembas: the sweet elven alternative to the dwarves' cram; the latter journey bread Legolas swore could double as a hammer in an emergency.  Tasana had become something of a connoisseur of dried foodstuffs from over thirteen winters spent in the wild.  She had to agree with the Mirkwood prince after trying a bite of the leaf wrapped elven journey bread that, although not quite as good as fresh meat, the soft lembas tasted sweeter and gave a more potent burst of energy than the over-baked whole grain (and whole chaff, according to the elf,) dwarven cram.  

Galadriel also had a gift for each of the travelers.  To Sam she gave a box of fertile earth from her gardens and a small seed.  Even if his beloved trees of Bagshot Row had been torn down, anything Sam planted in that soil would grow quickly and profusely.  The seed was from one of the beautiful golden trees of Lothlorien that never lost their leaves, even in deepest winter.  To Strider Galadriel gave a jeweled scabbard, naming his sword and proclaiming its heritage as Narsil, the sword of Isildur.  

Tasana shook her head at the slightly gaudy presentation, remarking to Boromir, "That bloody blade's got a higher lineage than I do."  With her old unnamed scimitar that she had pulled from the alpha male's wound hanging in its battered leather scabbard at a rude loop in her belt, Tasana was plainly not the type of woman who held with much ornamentation.

"If your lineage was any nobler, my Princess of Gondor, I'd be afraid to court you." He whispered back, wrapping an arm about her shoulders.  Boromir was obviously impressed by the total effect of the ancient blade and jeweled scabbard, however, touching the sword at his waist with a hint of the humbling inferiority he suddenly felt when compared with the ranger. Tasana laid her head on his shoulder, comforting his unvoiced fears of incompetence with her simple, but in Boromir's mind august, presence.  

Strider himself had been rendered wordless with gratitude; his backwoods origins where such embellishments were not possible were glaringly obvious to his city-bred sister.  He was graceful enough to thank his hosts, at least, although in a manner that suggested to Tasana that he was more familiar with these elves than she had first thought.  Hadn't Legolas mentioned Strider was courting an elf maid named Arwen, the Mirkwood elf's cousin through her mother's line and his father's both tracing back to – Galadriel?  Strider may have grown up in backwoods country, but he had certainly managed to find the most powerful family in the backwoods to become familiar with.

"Is there nothing else you require, Aragorn? For we may not meet again until we reach the path from whence there is no return." Lord Celeborn, Galadriel's husband asked the ranger.

"There is but one treasure I yearn for, Lord Celeborn, and it is not yours to give," Strider gave his sister in Boromir's arms a thoughtful glance, wondering when he would be able to hold his own beloved close again as Boromir did.

"Then perhaps you will accept this gift that was entrusted to my care in the event you should come to the Golden Wood," Galadriel spoke up, handing the Dunedain a small wrapped packet.  "I gave it to my daughter, and she to hers, now it has been given to you as a token of hope for the future, Estel."  Strider smiled at the childhood nickname, Elvish for 'hope'.  Arwen still called him that.  "Take it, and with it the name foretold for you: Elessar, the Elf Stone who shall return hope to these lands after the Dark Lord is vanquished."  Aragorn removed the package to reveal a brooch with a great emerald, centered in the breast of a silver eagle with outstretched wings.  He definitely recognized this as a gift from Arwen.  

Tasana had to smile at the look upon her brother's face.  She put her arm around Boromir as Strider turned to thank his hostess.  "For the gifts you have given me I thank you," Aragorn bowed before Galadriel.  "O Lady of Lothlorien from who sprang Arwen Evenstar, what greater praise could a humble Dunedain attempt to give you?"

Next came belts for Pippin and Merry, silver with clasps of gold shaped like the fair flowers that graced the trees of Lothlorien in the spring, the real blooms of such were only beginning to open as the company left.  Boromir received a similarly designed golden belt from the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, along with their blessings.   "Forgive me, Lady Galadriel," the Steward's son bent low before her.  "I misjudged your purposes when we first entered your domain, but now I see that you and your people have done nothing to warrant my mistrust.  You have done all you could to help us."

"Go in peace, Lord Boromir.  All is forgiven."  Galadriel's smile was reflected in her eyes, but there was a touch of sadness in both.  She gave her kinsman Legolas a longbow such as the archers of Lothlorien used: longer, thicker, and suppler than the one he had brought from Mirkwood.  

To Frodo Galadriel gave a small glass vial that sparkled in the morning sunlight.  "In this phial," she explained mysteriously, "is caught the light of Earendil, our most beloved star.  May it be a light to you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

Then the elven lady summoned Tasana forward, handing the healer a small, hollow metal rod decorated with twisting ivy vines in relief.  The rod, about the length of Tasana's forearm, tapered to pointed ends with a pinhole in each.  "Perhaps your blood is not as high as that of Narsil, Chev'yahna of the Wargs," the witch said with a cryptic grin.  "But it may yet give hope to one who has none."

At last, the elven sorceress turned to Gimli.  "And what gift would you have in memory of your stay in Lothlorien, my good dwarf?"

"N-n-nothing," Gimli stuttered as he bowed.  "I could never forget the beauty of these woodlands, or that of its lady."  Celeborn and Galadriel smiled at the rough-hewn dwarf's attempt at eloquence.

"No one here can ever speak of the dwarves as greedy and ungrateful again!" Celeborn announced with a laugh.  "But truly, Gimli, we must give you something for your travels.  What would you like?"

"Nothing, Lord Celeborn.  Nothing except," Gimli said bashfully, stammering to a pause before continuing quietly at Galadriel's gentle encouragement.  "If it's not too much trouble, Lady Galadriel, I would very much like a single strand of your hair, which surpasses the gold of the earth as the stars surpass the brightest jewels of the mine."

Galadriel smiled and cut off a long lock of her golden hair.  "They say dwarves' skill is in their hands instead of their tongues, but Gimli son of Gloin has proved this saying false.  Never have I heard so bold and so courteous a request. Of course it shall be fulfilled.  Think of this land when you use your gifts," she added for the entire company.  

"But of course, O fairest lady of the Golden Wood! For no matter how far I roam, my heart remains here with you."  There were tears in Gimli's eyes as Galadriel departed in the swan boat back towards Lothlorien upriver.

Each member of the group also received a light elven cloak, warm enough for deepest winter and cool enough for a hot spring day, which blended into the background.  "It will not turn an arrow," Celeborn warned them before he left with his wife, "but it will help you hide when you do not wish to be seen."

The group decided to travel downriver in buoyant, tightly sealed elven boats along a course that lay halfway between Minas Tirth and Mount Doom until they reached the fens south of Lothlorien.  They divided their gear into the three rowboats, as so at least one person per boat had prior rowing experience.  

Most hobbits had no more love for boats than the four had shown for treetops, yet Merry Brandybuck was quick to point out that "not all hobbits looked upon rivers as wild horses"; Merriadoc had grown up along the Brandywine River.  Tasana had never been to the Shire, but from the way the hobbits described it, the Brandywine sounded as if it were almost as rough sailing as a stream of spilt liquor.  This still gave Merry more boating experience than Tasana.  She could swim as well as any youth in the Fourth Gate in Minas Tirth, but the healer had never ridden on such a small boat before.  Gimli, like the hobbits besides Merry, had had little contact with any water deep enough to wet his ankles, and often smelled that way, as the acidic-tongued Prince of Mirkwood would point out in their teasing rounds of gibes.  Her nose trained to sensitivity from years of hunting with the Wargs, Chev'yahna had to admit the archer was not far off the mark.  Of course, despite claims to the impossibility of such an assertion, Tasana still believed that several weeks out in the wilds were doing little for elven hygiene, either.  All arguments of relative cleanliness aside; this left Legolas, Boromir, and Aragorn to lead boat crews.

 Gimli and Legolas had become close friends during their stay in Lothlorien; Sam would not be separated from Frodo due to a promise he had made to Gandalf, and it was only natural for Merry to stay together with his younger cousin, so it was necessary for Tasana to ride with the elf and the dwarf to avoid capsizing their boat.  It suited Aragorn just fine that Boromir was rowing with Pippin and Merry in front of him instead of the ranger's sister.  

Strider trusted Legolas and Gimli with his life, but even so he took the archer aside for a moment only to have the elf double over in laughter.  "Chev'yahna has made it very clear that she intends to be Boromir's bride and no one else's.  I don't think either Gimli or I would care to face the combined wrath of all three of you."  Legolas explained once he had caught his breath.  All in all, the arrangements worked out fairly well.

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	16. Going, Not Exactly Swimmingly

A/N: As you ought to bloody well know, I don't own a thing.

Whoo! Another reviewer! Glad you liked it, Dread Lady Freya. Ah, you hear that "squee" call of the glomping fangirl? You all know what that means, Possum Lodge members. Does an elaborate hand sign involving the Vulcan greeting, Galaxy Quest salute, and rhythmic finger waggling whilst chanting something sounding suspiciously like "Jose Baaaker, Jose Baaaker…" "I am a Sue writer, but I can change. If I have to. I guess."

Based upon the Men Anonymous group of the Red Green Show. Very hilarious, if you get the chance. The Jose Baker Dance is copyrighted to a friend, who similarly has too much time on her hands, and a better sense of rhythm.

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Tasana's arms were sore, stiff, and exhausted by the end of their first day on the river. She was shaking convulsively as they dragged their boat out onto the shore for the night. Gimli wasn't looking much better. He flashed Pippin a dirty look as Boromir's boat came in behind them. The youngest of the hobbits had not done much rowing. Although Merry had tried to help, it looked as if most of the extra work had fallen on Boromir. Aragorn had the worst situation, however. 

Although both Gimli and Tasana were inexperienced rowers, they picked up the technique of slicing through the water fairly quickly, and both had enough upper body strength to keep the boat moving through the forested Great River. Sam and Frodo were too afraid of falling out of the boat to row very much. Neither one could swim. In rougher water, the hobbits ended up panicking and accidentally backstroking, even turning their vessel upstream once, which did little to help Sam's seasickness. Aragorn had been rowing before, but after hauling his canoe out of that mess, the Dunedain was at least as exhausted as the novice rowers. Both he and Tasana gladly accepted half a loaf of the elven journey bread each from Pippin as they set up camp.

"We'll be safe for a few days yet," Strider told the group. "But Haldir warned me that orcs patrol the eastern shore further to the south."

"I fear I must go west, back to Minas Tirith. Sauron will not hold off his attack on Gondor forever." Boromir's hazel eyes held a distant, gloomy light in them as he looked toward the southwest, where his country awaited him.

Strider nodded sadly. "I would go with you if I could, Boromir, but the quest for the destruction of the One Ring will not wait, either, and I am the last one who knows the way to Mordor." Tasana felt the stares of the two men she loved most upon the back of her head, each looking for the opposite answer to the same unspoken question. Gimli, Legolas, Merry, and Pippin were pondering similar inquiries in their own minds.

To go home to Gondor, with her liege lord and lover to prepare the Wargs for the ultimate orc raid, or to slink into the heart of the Dark Lord's kingdom with her brother, Tasana questioned herself. Her loyalties technically lay with Lord Boromir, the wolves, and Gondor. She had made no promises to stay with the Ring; yet Tasana knew it was not yet finished with her destiny, as surely as she knew her pack. "We needn't worry about splitting up until we get closer to our goal. The path from here to Minas Tirith is as yet the same as the road to the Black Tower. Who knows what may affect our final choice before the routes divide?" she said aloud. It didn't fully settle the inner queries, but it was enough to make Strider and Boromir back off their silent arguments for a little while.

The group traveled along the river for nearly a week, drifting as often as paddling now. Tasana and Gimli had overcome their initial muscle aches to become reasonably decent rowers, but Aragorn by himself could not keep up with all three members of Legolas's crew stroking in time. Besides, no one was too eager to leave the trees of the Golden Wood and their reminder of fleeting days of peace and comfort behind. As the forests along the river thinned, and the disappeared by the fourth day, Gimli sank into a saddened, reflective mood. "I came prepared to take on any evil that came my way, but I never counted on the seductiveness of beauty along the road. No matter how far I travel, I leave my heart in Lothlorien." He sighed, bittersweet memories threatening to overwhelm his rough, stoic exterior. "I wish I could stay here, but I must see this quest through." He risked a brief look back toward the disappearing ragged tree line, and then paddled as hard as he could in a foiled attempt to hide his face from his friends.

"Whoa, slow down, Gimli," Tasana laid a friendly, sympathetic hand on the dwarf's blocky shoulder. "You'll kill my poor brother with so quick a pace." She understood that he probably didn't want direct comfort just yet from her own vague feelings of coming loss.

"At least you left it willingly so there will be no mar in your memory of the Golden Wood," Legolas added soothingly from behind the woods-woman. At this the dwarf's composure broke and tears welled to his eyes.

"I will return. Upon Gloin my father's beard I swear I shall return!" Gimli called out tearfully. Despite his initial distrust of the elves, Gimli had been closer to the people of Lothlorien than any of the others in the company. He still kept his gift from Galadriel in a velvet pouch next to his heart.

"I'm sure you will, Gimli." Tasana smiled and patted him on the shoulder before picking up the stroke. Boromir and Merry were paddling as hard as they could, their vessel passing the other little craft as Tasana and Legolas comforted their friend.

"And I suppose you think you have yourself a sea-worthy crew, aye, Legolas?" Boromir shouted playfully. "Or has the dwarf lost his sea legs?"

"You'd best grab an oar, young Pippin," Gimli growled in mock rage. "Else you and that land-lubbing braggart will be left far behind in our wake! Full speed ahead, my sea wolves!" Tasana laughed aloud as the two boats raced neck and neck down the river, and she could hear Pippin shouting encouragement as they passed Aragorn's boat in the lead. Her crew had three rowers to Boromir's two, and all were about equally rested, but Boromir's long, powerful strokes kept pace with Gimli's shorter, more frequent dips of the paddle. Legolas's precise steering would gain them momentary headway, but then Merry would tilt the front of his watercraft into a faster rivulet.

Strider was left far behind the other two rowboats. "Save your strength!" he shouted to Boromir as they passed him by. "Tomorrow we must haul these around a waterfall."

"At the rate you're going, perhaps," Boromir called back. "But don't worry, Aragorn, we'll wait for you there."

Frodo grabbed a paddle as Boromir ranged out of shouting distance, stroking more frantically as the gap widened. "What's the matter, Baggins?" The ranger asked him as Strider attempted to compensate for the hobbit's jerky strokes. Sam was turning a delicate shade of green again.

"We can't afford to be separated. I saw him again last night." The Dunedain stuck his paddle deeper into the water, a grim look in his eyes as the frightened hobbit continued. "I heard him in Lothlorien as well. Even with the elven guard, he's been following us. I doubt we'll be able to throw him off our trail."

Aragorn nodded gravely. "Boromir mentioned hearing him in the forest as well." He looked as if he would have liked to add a few choice curses to that statement.

Whoever it was following them, Sam hoped for its sake that the tall, dark Dunedain didn't catch it. The ranger obviously despised the follower deeply. Despite his nausea, Sam could no longer contain his curiosity. "Who's following us, Strider?"

"Gollum," Aragorn said sourly with a growl that answered Sam's questions unasked. The others had gotten far ahead, but were now forced to slow in order to navigate treacherous shoals and jagged rocks near the surface of the water. These were but a hint of the dangers further downstream the river itself would pose. Between Frodo and Aragorn, the third boat began to close the gap. "We'll go at a faster pace tomorrow." Strider assured his companions. "I'd like to get my hands on that little tramp, but he's too quick as of yet. Until that fine day, we must be content with simply eluding him. I fear Gollum may yet pull a legion of orcs down upon our heads if we don't keep moving."

Aragorn stared pensively at the dry, lifeless plain to the east of the river between strokes. Another sign of the Dark Lord's destructiveness. To the west were great rock chimneys where abundant flocks of birds of all species whistled and crowed as their forms filled the air. Small trees and wildflowers grew prodigiously, and further south one could almost make out a glimpse of the vast sea of prairie grasses that made up the vibrant green Plains of Rohan, where nomadic riders maintained huge herds of the finest, fastest horses. The richly exuberant life of the western shore contrasted sharply with the arid, rocky, and totally barren badlands to the east. No birds flew here. Deep gouges scoured the dusty ground where wind and rain controlled the dead sands and ashes of long forgotten battles. The few plants were spare and sickly, looking as if something in the soil had poisoned their roots. Aragorn could not say what evils had taken place there that had kept the land from regrowing somethree thousand years after the defeat of Sauron, but the nebulous rumors he had heard along his journeys were enough to make his hands quiver as a chill ran up the ranger's spine. "Boromir!" Aragorn shouted ahead to the middle rowboat. "We will reach the waterfall by this evening, after all."

"Thanks to my dear Lord Boromir's sorry attempt to prove his manhood," Tasana laughed, winking at her beloved to show no hard feelings.

"You only won because Merry and I let you, Chev'yahna," the Steward's son retorted playfully.

"Save your breath! You'll need it to keep up with us." Gimli raised a triumphant fist over his head.

"Indeed. We'll go around the waterfall tonight and catch up on sleep once we get back to the river," Strider said more seriously.

"So does this mean you won't get us up before dawn for once?" Tasana asked her brother wryly. Although they hadn't rowed for speed very much up until Boromir and Gimli's spontaneous race, Aragorn kept them in the river from the false light of predawn until late after sunset.

"We will sleep in the boats. The current will carry us further that way," he responded easily.

"Unless it carries us into a rock," Gimli grumbled. They paddled with renewed focus, knowing the amount of sleep the group got as a whole depended upon how speedily they got the watercraft around the waterfall. The river current sped along swiftly and powerfully as the water was squeezed into a narrower, rocky channel. The fellowship landed on the top of a precipice, slinging backpacks onto their shoulders and raising the small boats over the brush. Aragorn and Boromir carried one between them and Tasana and Legolas hauled another. Gimli and Pippin struggled with the last, requiring Sam's aid just to pick the canoe up. Although the little craft were extremely light for their size, the combination of necessary luggage and unwieldy vessel was difficult to carry over rough terrain.

The group traveled down a rocky slope with a steep incline and treacherous footing, all the more dangerous for the occasional overgrown trail that lulled one into a false sense of safety with an easier path, to enter the low knolls of the rocky badlands. The land around the river had slowly become hillier, with jutting rock formations on both shores. It lightened Tasana's spirits, if not the cumbersome weight of the boat, to hear the birds chirping as they settled atop these cliffs for the night. As she and Legolas finally set the boat down, Tasana thought she saw the last rays of sunlight catch a pair of broad wings floating high above them. "What's that, Legolas?" she asked the far-sighted elf as they dropped their packs back into the boat.

"An eagle, I believe," the archer replied after shading his eyes a moment. "It's awfully far from the mountains, though." Most of the gigantic eagles of the north never strayed far beyond the Misty Mountains west of Mirkwood. To see one this far south was an extreme rarity. Often such sightings were considered omens, and not necessarily lucky ones.

"I wonder what it portends," Tasana mused aloud. Her father was very superstitious, but Tasana had not yet seen convincing proof either way for the existence of messages between gods and the common man. Maybe wizards and priests could communicate with the forces outside the normal plain, but even the power of the Wargish seeresses came from within and not from any deity. Tasana tried to leave legends and myths to those who required them, but the myths seemed to require her. Perchance the eagle meant nothing; perhaps it did not. Gandalf's death and the emotional whirlwind following it in Lothlorien had taught Tasana to stick to her sword and leave magic and prophecy to others.

_That is_, she thought as the other two boats came up the hill with Boromir in the rear, causing her seer sense to flash momentarily, _I would, if only I were not the only group member left with the ability to see flashes of the future_. Surely Galadriel was wrong about Boromir. And yet Mithilira's nose was never wrong, and the Warg had noticed the aura of something iniquitous about Tasana's liege-lord as well. Perhaps the elf had caused these flashes of treachery. Yet Galadriel had proved herself to be a friend and a worthy one at that. Besides, how would the elven sorceress have been able to affect him from Rivendell, and why would she bother to do so?

"Nothing good, I expect." Legolas answered, breaking her reverie. The archer wordlessly took over from the struggling hobbits. Tasana grabbed the other end of the boat from Gimli, watching the raptor make a final wheel before heading southwest with the sun toward the Plains of Rohan.

"I don't know about that, Legolas," she replied, ignoring Gimli's protests. "Didn't Gandalf work with eagles before?"

"Accordin' to Mister Bilbo's stories he did." Sam said, referring to the misadventures of Frodo's famous traveling uncle.

"It's too bad Gandalf isn't with us any longer. I wouldn't mind seeing those eagles up close," Pippin stared bemusedly after the bird disappearing over the horizon. "We have traveled by boat, by wolf-back, and with a horse. Flying's about the only thing we haven't tried yet." Perhaps it was a trick of the light upon Tasana's tired eyes, but as Pippin spoke, she swore she could make out the silhouette of a battered blue-hatted figure astride the great raptor's back.

"I'm not sure I'd like that sorta ride," Sam shook his head, making a sign against the evil eye at the bird of prey's retreating shadow.

"Why not, Sam?" Peregrin shaded his eyes as he looked into the sunset, a mischievous smile on his face. "You'd be able to see the whole Shire from up there."

"I know, Pip, but I'd also be able to see how far down the ground is, and no mistake about that," said Sam as the others got ready to cast off.

Despite the dangers of hidden rocks under the water and orcs and other enemies along the shore, the company slept easily in their boats until late in the night, taking shifts of one person per boat for three hours each to watch for Gollum and direct the boat around shoals. Boromir let Pippin and Merry rest another few minutes after his watch was officially over at midnight, paddling up to the side of Aragorn's boat to stare at the uneasily sleeping form of Frodo. Sam, groggily taking over the watch from the bearer of the Ring, found Boromir's brooding expression too dark for the moonless night. Wrapping his camouflage elven cloak more tightly around him, the hobbit hunkered down in the boat, avoiding Boromir's gaze. That expression could not insure any good intentions concerning the Ring.

Samwise had heard and seen too much to want the Ring himself, but the simple hobbit knew of Boromir's desire to use the One Ring in the name of Gondor. Sam had sworn to protect his best friend when Gandalf had caught him foolishly eavesdropping on the wizard's conversation with Frodo, and Sam was not one to go back on his word (even when given under the implied threat of being turned into a frog or something else unnatural); but Samwise Gamgee wasn't sure he could be of much help if Frodo was facing off against the strongest member of their group. If only Chev'yahna or Strider could heal this strange madness Boromir suffered from!

Frodo shivered and groaned in his sleep, and Boromir let his boat drift behind theirs, biting his nails as if the human expected someone to denounce his nefarious plans at any moment. Sam noticed that Legolas was twirling an arrow through his fingers, his bow in the other hand until Boromir woke Merry up for the next watch. Perhaps they were all just edgy, and Sam was ascribing his own suspicions to the others; and maybe Boromir was not to be trusted at all. All was quiet amongst the sleeping boats once more, yet even when Aragorn replaced Sam on watch at three, the hobbit could not shake the eerie feeling that he had just witnessed the calm before the storm.


	17. Arrows and Reflections

A/N: Tolkien's, not mine. For those of you who are sick of fluff, I ought to warn you that this is another chapter where my supposedly romantic, or at least hormonal side comes to the fore. It's squashed thoroughly, I assure you.

Wow, 1 chapter and my reviews double. Thanks, guys. They're highly appreciated, as always, especially when they contain factoids and/or quotes. [wink, nudge] The former help me improve and the latter let me know what I'm doing right. I will use East / West tensions as well, in future chapters / stories, at least, Mercury Gray. Thanks for the info.

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Sam, Frodo, and the rest who were not on the next watch were rudely awakened to a very sobering sight. The eastern shore was swarming with orcs. Extending well into the center of the river from the rocky western edge, white water rapids swirled around jagged stones in a fast current that was suicide to row through in the best of conditions.

"Go back!" Aragorn shouted. Legolas cursed in his own tongue as the destructive current pulled them toward the orcs, despite his crew's best efforts to turn and escape. Even Pippin and Sam, both of who were worse than completely useless with paddles, started rowing frantically as their boats slipped back towards the raging rapids and the orcs beyond them.

"Gollum's behind this," Tasana spat, noticing a pair of yellow eyes watching from their hiding place further up the bank. As if the current itself wasn't bad enough, the orc archers were beginning to get in range, shooting wildly overhead in the dark.

"And quite a lovely trap he's set up. The current's too strong for us for to escape upstream." Legolas added. "Can we ride these out if we keep low?"

"There's not a chance in Mordor. We're headed straight for Sarn Gebir, the worst set of rapids in the Great River." Aragorn's voice held an edge of panic to it, but Boromir was past fear and felt merely incredulous, angry frustration towards Gollum, the Ring, Frodo, the river, and all that surrounded the Steward's son.

"Correction: we're headed straight backwards down the Sarn Gebir, the passage of which no one has ever survived, period, with orcs shooting us up like pincushions. This is pure madness!" Boromir let loose a darkly ironic laugh on the far edge of sanity.

"Duck!" Gimli shouted as the orc arrows flew fast and furious amongst the company. Their aim was improving. One hit Frodo squarely in the back, then bounced off his hidden armor. Another barely missed Boromir's shoulder, tearing a gash in his sleeve. Tasana ducked low and flinched as a third gauged her arm, and then risked a return shot with her small hunting bow. She heard a vengeful scream as one of the tormenting goblins was put out of this fight. The woods woman didn't think the twisted orc would be out permanently, however, because it was too dark for her to aim accurately, leaving the huntress-turned-prey to shoot at vague white-flecked shadows along the rocky shore. The healer felt her arm and her hand came away with blood, but the wound was not as deep as she had first thought. Chev'yahna gritted her teeth against the pain and drew back her bow.

Legolas repeated her trick with better results, being more experienced at shooting at such an odd angle and uninjured. Cursing the orcs, the river, and Gollum all in one breath, Gimli did his best to row the boat back upstream with his head hidden below the top of the vessel's sides.

When the orcs figured out they were not shooting at helpless targets, the shots thinned. Eventually the goblin archers simply left the river to do their dirty work, shooting only an occasional warning arrow to keep the rowers from raising their heads over the side of the boats. Aragorn clenched his teeth as he felt rocks scrape the bottom of his vessel. At Gimli's silent but insistent gesturing, Tasana and Legolas dropped their bows into the bottom of the boat in favor of their paddles. "Come on, we must get back upstream!" Strider shouted to the rest of the group. The orcs had given them up in the dark to sink or swim in the swirling rapids. Straining with panic-succored effort, the three boats slowly made headway against the current. It was next to impossible to tell how much progress they were making in the dark, but the clutches of the Sarn Gebir eventually lost their hold upon the three little craft, slackening to the slow, inevitable tug that characterized the undertow of the rest of the Great River. With great exertion, but not great speed, the little company pushed past the surprised orcs to the safety of the western shore.

They landed in a sheltered clump of bushes, far upriver of the orcs. Leaving the others to nervously set up camp, Aragorn and Legolas snuck out for a scouting trip upriver, their bows in hand. "Hang on a minute," Tasana bound up her arm with her ripped shirtsleeve, catching up with the other two.

"Stay here, Tasana." Aragorn gripped her shoulder. "It's dangerous."

"Which is why I'm not letting you two go alone," Tasana said stubbornly. "I can move as quietly in the forest as you, Strider."

Legolas shrugged as the Dunedain opened his mouth to admonish his sister to remain at camp. "An extra pair of eyes could come in handy. Come on; don't give me that look, Aragorn. If we don't move soon, we'll run out of darkness; and you two will be here arguing all night." Strider gave in reluctantly, knowing that given his sister's tenacity, the elf was not far off the mark. Chev'yahna flashed Legolas a brief smile of gratitude, and the three hunters stalked downstream, with only the elf's muffled epithet to give noise of their passage: "Humans!"

They came quickly upon the orcs' campsite. Flickering campfires outlined the eastern bank, and raucous voices cut the air, unintelligible and preferably left untranslated. The goblins knew their prey had escaped; and were beating themselves into a tumultuous flurry of anger and blood-lust before going after the company. Tasana hoped that Boromir, Gimli, and the hobbits had avoided making a fire. The group could not afford to give these orcs any hint of their location.

"We've no idea how many there are, or what their plans include," Strider whispered, echoing her thoughts.

"I could make a few rough estimates," his sister commented darkly from her perch in the gnarled maple that overlooked the river and offered the three minimal shielding from the orcs' line of sight. "Too many for us to handle in short order, and all out for our blood with a vengeance."

"Shh… I thought I heard something." From the ground, Legolas waved them into hiding, searching for an unseen target. Tasana heard a wailing cry, then the soft whistle of a freed shaft. The alien creature with the unnerving howl let loose another scream, and then a black shadow fell from the cloudy sky. Tasana couldn't make out the orcs around the ragged line of fires clearly, but their shocked wailing was unmistakable.

"They weren't expecting that to go down, whatever it was. Nice shot, Legolas." Aragorn congratulated the archer quietly. The Mirkwood elf shrugged the ranger's comment off, but he looked quite pleased with himself. The three hunters faded back into the forest, any sound they might have made drowned out by the chaos on the opposite shore. Legolas all but swaggered as they approached the camp, but Tasana, favoring her injured arm and furtively scanning the gloomy, overcast skies, seemed oddly subdued. "What's wrong, Chev'yahna?" Strider asked her.

"You were right. Sauron hasn't found us yet; but they have, Aragorn." Tasana indicated the shadowy being that Legolas had shot down.

"But the Black Riders were taken down by the river just before we reached Rivendell," the Dunedain shook his head incredulously, his eyes widening. "I saw the remains of their mounts myself."

"Maybe their horses were, but do you know how long they have survived? Swords, flame, and water mean nothing to a wraith. I don't believe for a moment that all nine were destroyed in a flood." She shook her head. Strider could not help but follow her preoccupied gaze into the black sky above.

"Let's not discuss this in front of the others." He whispered quietly, taking her arm.

"Not discuss what?" Boromir appeared out of the dark as brother and sister looked cautiously back towards the river.

"Trouble, Boromir," Tasana returned his welcoming embrace. "But it's only one possibility out of hundreds to explain what we saw out there. There is no telling what the evils of Mordor can and cannot do." She turned slightly to include her brother in a significant glance.

Aragorn nodded slightly; pleased his sister was learning how to protect the rest of the group while minimizing alarm, yet hardly reassured by these empty words she used to put on a brave face for the rest of the company. "Whatever it was, it doesn't change the fact that we've got half an army of orcs on our tails. Tonight's kill may have earned us more time, but they will ultimately try to track us down. We'll have to stay out of the water tonight if we're going to elude them," Strider said, following Legolas towards the small, fireless camp.

"You've been pacing again." Tasana resettled her head on Boromir's shoulder. He had indeed been anxiously pacing the camp, worried that she might be caught and killed by twisted orcs. She had returned to him wounded, but at least Tasana had returned, Boromir tried to console himself.

He caressed her injured arm with its rude bandage, wishing she would allow him to protect her from harm, and yet knowing he could not. They both needed some level of independence; otherwise they would have never fallen in love. That did not mean, however, that Boromir liked having to let Tasana run free and accept whatever pain her freedom earned her. "You've been hiding things again," he replied in turn.

"You won't like it." She warned, quavering slightly as she looked across the dark river. Boromir took her head between his hands, stroking her cheek to calm her, as he looked her in the eye.

"I like you facing nameless threats even less." He kissed her forehead, rocking Tasana gently until she was reassured enough to continue.

"Nagzül." She nuzzled his throat and ran her hands along Boromir's spine. It was her turn to comfort now, and this easy contact soothed them both. "I warned you that you wouldn't like it."

Boromir's hackles rose as his arms tightened protectively around Tasana. "Ring Wraiths?" he asked in a hushed whisper.

"Well, it certainly wasn't a crow that Legolas shot down." Tasana tried to hearten him, but there was no allaying the frightened madness rising in Boromir's mind.

"They're watching us. They know where we are." He was shaking as he held her tight. His embrace was not so much protective as possessive now, as if he feared Chev'yahna would flee from him if she knew his thoughts. "They know what we plan."

"Uff… Boromir – Boromir, I can't breathe." Pushing him to arm's length to check his face; Tasana noticed her seer-sense was active for a second before he was completely calmed. _Soon…_ she thought, making soothing noises as he kissed her apologetically and held the healer gently close once more.

"Tasana, I need you. Sleep with me tonight, please. Marry me," Boromir whispered huskily in her ear as he rubbed her injured arm.

The woods woman did not know what to say. Despite the flashes of seer-sense warning her away from him, she loved Boromir as she had loved no other man. Chev'yahna truly wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Yet she was not quite ready to commit to a marriage, even to her lover. Tasana knew she was not yet strong enough to make a good wife, and she could not abandon the Wargs, even for Boromir. It was one thing to leave the South Woods territory briefly, but the healer had run with the packs for far too long to turn her back on them now.

"One step at a time, my dearest," she snuggled closer. "I am yours for the claiming, Boromir, but I am as yet untamed and wary. Don't be too quick to show the half-wolf the hound's collar." He sighed and kissed her, acquiescing.

"Would my half-wolf be reluctant to sleep with me tonight?" Boromir asked as he led Tasana to his bed with an arm about her shoulder.

"Not at all." Her smile was indeed rather wolfish as Chev'yahna drew him atop her, unbuttoning his shirt. Their deepening kiss was rather rudely interrupted by the sound of a small voice clearing its throat.

"Excuse me, Mistress Chev'yahna, but Strider thought you might like some dinner. We were rather worried when you two failed to return to camp." Frodo held the leaf-wrapped lembas at arms' length toward the two lovers, looking as if he would rather be anywhere else at the moment.

"The Warg got me." Boromir said dryly by way of excuse as he sat up next to Tasana, one hand on her arm.

"Thanks, Frodo," Tasana accepted the food, motioning for the hobbit to sit down.

"I'm fine, thank you, Chev'yahna." Frodo replied coldly, backing away from Tasana and Boromir, studying them suspiciously.

The healer shook her head with a gentle smile as Boromir whispered something in her ear. "Not yet," she replied softly, taking his hand in hers. "There's no need to be so prissy about it, Frodo." Tasana turned back to the hobbit. "People sometimes fall in love away from civilization."

Frodo Baggins stood there in silence another minute, fingering the chain around his neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Tasana caught a glaze coming over Boromir's face as he stared at the Ring. Her seer's warning sense was flashing sharply as her eyes flew between Frodo's frightened, suspicious stare and Boromir's hungry, treacherous expression. "Too soon," she whispered to herself.

"Strider says you're on first watch, Boromir. I'd sleep with one eye open even off watch, myself." Frodo scurried back to the rest of the group before they could question him further.

Boromir shook himself, and Tasana's lover appeared once more. "Now, where were we?" he asked as his warm, heavy body covered the healer's.

Reluctantly, she fought off his caresses. "Next watch, Boromir. Aragorn won't put me on tonight with this arm."

"Aragorn will be on next watch himself, with our luck." Boromir grumbled, nuzzling her.

"No, I don't think he'll be on duty until tomorrow. My brother's worn himself out today, and hoped it would have us out too." Tasana straightened his cloak with a smile and a wink. "Obviously he doesn't know our stamina." Rising from his lover's sweet scent with a final kiss, Boromir picked up his sword and turned his attention to the eastern shores and the black skies above. The Nagzül…

Once they had been men, nine kings among the newly founded kingdoms after the fall of the Numenorean Empire. After the fall of the first – and so far, last – family to wield lordship over all the realms of men, with close ties to the elves and dwarves, these comparatively petty kings had been more than eager to gain power in any way they could, that they might dominate their neighbors. Even if that power came in the form of a gift from Sauron, who had caused Numenor's downfall. The kings had received a ring of power each from the Dark Lord, and turned the rings against each other. Entire countries had been destroyed in their madness. Sauron had given each ring different properties, but all were cursed that their bearers should live forever in a shadowy half life, neither fully alive to enjoy the pleasures of this world, nor resting at peace within the next. No man could kill these soulless wraiths now. They were sightless slaves of Sauron's malevolent will, wreaking destruction in their tireless search for their master's One Ring.

And they say the One Ring had similar properties to their ability to shape men's hearts, as the raging oceans have similar properties to a drying puddle. Boromir knew there were risks with taking up the One Ring, but the powers that came with it were worth all the risks. He was strong of will and wanting the Ring for a just cause, so Boromir doubted that there was much of a chance for it to corrupt him. Boromir swore he would never let a ring of power turn him into a wraith. What of Galadriel's nightmarish warnings and Frodo's fearful glances? The man wanted to challenge Sauron with the Dark Lord's own power to protect Minas Tirith and his Chev'yahna, not become another evil wizard-king. The Steward's son was willing to help Frodo destroy the One Ring, as soon as the Black Tower of Mount Doom had fallen. Boromir turned back toward his sleeping roll and Gondor beyond it. With a woman like Tasana by his side, and a high place in the White City and the lands beyond, what more power could a man possibly need, save to protect those things?

Boromir found himself staring at his beloved's sleeping form for longer than he meant to. Checking the sky to make sure no enemy scouts had snuck over on nocturnal wings, but then giving it up as useless in the pitch black, cloudy night, he went to the edge of the camp to stare at the fires across the river. It was going to be a long night for reflection.

* * *

Another member of the group was facing a restless night. Frodo pretended to sleep as watchman paced by his sleeping bag once more, but he didn't need Chev'yahna's seer-sense to the man was plotting something more than an amorous affair. Boromir probably wasn't the only one, either. The Ring was too much of a temptation. One by one the others would fall prey to its spell, shattering their hearts and minds in their desire to possess it. Even Lady Galadriel, the wise queen of Lothlorien, had had an intense desire to use the Ring's power. Not all the members of the fellowship would be pure enough of heart to resist the temptation as the elven lady had.

Frodo had volunteered to take up the burden, even though he had known better than anyone else how strong the temptation was, how deadly the dangers that went with it. The hobbit had kept the Ring hidden by himself after his uncle Bilbo and Gandalf had entrusted it to him. Perhaps it would be best for all involved if Frodo finished this quest by himself as well. Free of the temptations and burdens they could not understand, much less bear, Boromir and Chev'yahna could return to Gondor in time to assemble a defense against the Dark Lord, Aragorn could claim his destiny as king, and Pippin and Merry could go back home to the Shire to keep the youngsters out of trouble; maybe they could even get back to the high jinks they had had as boys. Frodo smiled despite himself. Who would have thought that there would come a day when he would wish his foolhardy younger cousins were making mischief?

Gimli had seemed so dejected at leaving Lothlorien. With Frodo and the Ring left to their own fate, the dwarf and Legolas would be able to return to the Golden Wood or their own homes as they chose. And Sam … Well, Frodo might be able to trust Sam. His best friend was honest, Frodo reminisced, and loyal to a fault. Samwise would probably try to tag along at any rate, once he found out what the elder hobbit was planning. Sam's optimistic outlook would certainly ease the burden of the Ring, but there was no sense in exposing two people to the temptations and liabilities of the Ring when Frodo could handle it by himself. As soon as he got the chance, Frodo decided resolutely, he would slip quietly away from the others and find his own way into Mordor.


	18. Fine Points of Battle & Sucession

AN: Here, again, everything belongs to Tolkien. Before you send the hate mail, purists, although it's greatly appreciated, the queen's line is Alternate Universe only. I understand this. 

* * *

An hour later Boromir had awakened Merry and gone back to his sleeping bag. Despite her earlier suggestive claims to endless stamina, Tasana had fallen asleep, curled up under the blankets, her hair strewn about her face. Boromir lied down next to the sleeping healer and she snuggled into his warm presence without waking. Boromir pulled her face even with his, kissing her softly. _No_, he decided, stroking a stray raven curl back from her face as she readjusted her position in her sleep to nuzzle in his warmth, _it wouldn't be worth disturbing her innocent, angelic countenance, even to make love to her_. Putting his arms around Tasana, Boromir slept more soundly than he had since the Black Tower had first disturbed his dreams. The next morning he was reluctant to leave the bed with their mingled scents.

There had been no further sign of orcs that night; the goblins had abandoned their camps during Boromir's watch and disappeared into the forest. An even more cryptic mystery concerning the orcs than to where they could have possibly disappeared to was hinted at by Legolas's collection in his quiver. The Mirkwood elf often collected arrows, broken and whole, to repair and add to his supply. "Those weren't normal orc arrows." The archer fingered a pair of points in his lap, one from last night and the other from Moria. "Look, the shaft's much thicker than everything I've ever seen used with anything but a Bardstown longbow. And you see how the point's wider on the new one?" The elf handed the arrows to Tasana, who nodded silently, then passed them to her brother. Boromir, who knew next to nothing about the more delicate aspects of fletching, had to assume the elven archer knew what he was talking about. The Steward's heir passed up the proffered arrows, knowing they would mean little to him. Aragorn shrugged, and handed the points to the dwarf instead. Gimli gave them a perfunctory glance, tested a point against his axe, and then tossed them back to Legolas, who caught the projectiles with an automatic grace.

"Then what was it shooting at us last night?" Gimli asked with disbelieving snort at the arrows.

"Orcs, certainly. But they weren't like any I've ever fought before in the South Woods. Did you notice the white marks they wore on their faces?" Tasana asked.

"I was busy noticing their arrows," Gimli responded sarcastically, giving the healer a light cuff on her injured arm. "Some of us could have done a better job to follow my example."

"Hand shaped, almost." Legolas answered Tasana softly in turn. "A different breed, perhaps?"

"A bigger, nastier breed of orcs," Gimli nodded solemnly. "Just what we needed."

"Let's get moving, then," Aragorn shook his head and rose from where he had been crouching in the small huddle to wake the hobbits and start repacking the boats. "We'll have to drag the boats through the forest today and we'll need every hand available. As soon as we get past the rapids, we'll row to the island of kings, Amon Hen. I can hardly wait to see this land of my ancestors." Aragorn added quietly to his sister.

"It's hardly on the way to Minas Tirth, but the men of Gondor do not quickly desert their companions. If you must insist upon continuing toward Mount Doom, Aragorn, I will accompany that far, at least. You will need every sword available there, as the woods are orc infested." Boromir warned. Aragorn nodded, his face grimly set. "Please, Tasana, at least you will surely return home with me? 'Tis not right, that you should have to face Mordor." The Steward's son kissed her gently, but she turned her face away.

"It's a difficult choice, Boromir. Do not rush me into a hasty decision, milord." Tasana returned to formality, knowing she would regret her choice either way, but not recognizing any way to answer without abandoning one of the men she loved to possible death, she could only wait and agonize over whether she would be more useful in Minas Tirth or at the Ring Bearer's side.

"I guess we'll separate at Amon Hen, then." There was a subtle hint of irony in Frodo's voice. The hobbit had come to a decision; one Tasana didn't like the smell of.

"Yes, I suppose we will," she said quietly, brooding over their possible paths and the words of a sorceress.

The portage path was extremely rocky and hilly, overgrown with weeds. Boromir and Strider were the only two able to manhandle their watercraft over the worst places in the old, unused trail. Tasana insisted upon carrying her brother's pack as he helped maneuver the boats through the woods. Determined to make good upon his claims of dwarven strength, Gimli hoisted Boromir's pack next to his own. Legolas took the trailblazing spot, attempting to tame the worst of the underbrush as the men hauled first one, then another, and then finally the last boat through the hilly lands toward the end of Sarn Gebir.

By the time they reached the old rocky landing point downstream, the group was thoroughly exhausted. It had been their second grueling day of portage, and if anything, this was worse than the first. "I don't think I could walk another step," Boromir said, collapsing next to the last boat. "But I'm sure our doughty dwarf would be able to accompany you the rest of the way to Mordor tonight, Strider. Isn't that right, Master Gimli?" He languidly reached over to grab his pack from where Gimli had halfheartedly thrown it at the Steward's son; it had landed a few feet short.

"Stow it, Boromir." The dwarf replied with a groan, too tired to make a comeback as he fell heavily against a tree.

"Best get on your feet then, gentlemen, if we're going to make it to the Black Tower and back by tomorrow." Legolas smiled, rubbing a scratch from the whipping young branches of a thorn tree on his sore left arm as he relaxed against a rocky outcropping.

"Fine, we'll camp here then," Aragorn gave in. "Let's keep two on watch tonight. There's no point in moving about at night with so many orcs around, anyway." Pippin and Strider took first watch.

Tasana wasn't quite ready to let her brother know how far her relationship with Boromir had progressed. Although the fact that they had slept together last night was probably common knowledge around the camp, given Legolas's sharp eyes and loose tongue, it was still a step further than Tasana was yet willing to go to freely admit this to Aragorn. Besides, she still hadn't made up her mind which way to go from Amon Hen, and she couldn't allow either man undue influence until she made her decision. She kissed Boromir and Strider goodnight, and then bedded down beneath one of the scrubby pines as the men shared a mystified look. Boromir's inquiring expression and Aragorn's helpless shrug decried the fickleness of a woman in love more thoroughly than any words.

The company spent a final day in the boats, rowing ever closer to Amon Hen. By early afternoon the forests had reclaimed the rocky shores as thoroughly as they had in Lothlorien, but these were not the ever-golden boughs of the elven wood. While still a long way north of Gondor, these trees extended in patchwork patterns of copses and clearings skirting the Plains of Rohan all the way to Tasana's beloved South Woods, prime hunting grounds as far as the eye could see. While Mithilira had accompanied the healer through the territories of other smaller wolf packs during the gypsy season, the Warg lady had been eager to return to her own lands in time for the spring pups. The wolves would still be in range to help the fellowship now, even if the Wargs had lost their winter wanderlust.

As the boats turned a bend in the river, Tasana became aware of a pair of figures that dwarfed the nearby trees. Two gigantic statues of men with a matching pair of swords in their left hands and a crown upon each armored helm, the figures held their free hands out as if to warn the tiny boats away. "Long have I desired to look upon the faces of my ancestors," Aragorn murmured, gently breaking the group's awed silence. "No friends of Elessar need fear under the shadows of Isildur and his father Elendil, the Kings of Gondor of old." He sat proudly in his boat; Tasana imagined her brother couldn't look more regal in robes of state on a throne. Boromir bowed his head as the shadows of the great statues touched the prow of his boat, silently saluting these heroes of Minas Tirith's direst hour. Sam and the younger two hobbits gaped in awe.

Tasana ducked her head, but before the group could be thoroughly humbled, a small, wry voice came from the middle of Legolas's boat. "Aye… tall, gray eyed, stubborn as a boulder… You're a chip right off the old block, Aragorn." She had pricked the ranger's royal bubble, but he simply leaned into his stroke and smiled good-naturedly.

"We have yet to divide into groups. Let's stop by Amon Hen to divvy up the luggage and finalize our courses." Strider peered toward the wooded isle jutting into the river. "I'd very much like to stand atop the lookout tower there before making any final decisions."

Tasana shook her short black tresses at her brother as she helped Legolas and Gimli bring their boat to shore. "You act like a country boy at his first market day. What's so interesting about this orc-infested place?" she asked in a harsh whisper, grabbing his shoulder.

"It's the northern border of Gondor." Aragorn responded. "Or so it was, back when our ancestors were ruling." He shrugged her off, but put his arm around her shoulder, pointing out a high, crumbling watchtower on the hill. "They say neither man nor beast has stood there since the fall of Isildur."

"There's probably a reason for that," Chev'yahna said cynically. "I've yet to meet an orc archer as good as Legolas, but they're fairly proficient." He nodded soberly as she drew him away from the rest of the group. "Not that I'm unhappy to be back on pack territory, Aragorn, but I'm only half wolf. You're Isildur's heir, the alpha's pup; you're the one they're going to put a collar on."

"A collar?" He snorted, gathering faggots of wood for a fire. Even while attending to his sister's concerns, Strider automatically looked after the group's needs.

Tasana appreciated his selflessness at a subliminal level; but she was fed up with her brother's unflagging sense of responsibility right now. Knocking the wood from his hands, she flared, "You think you'll be able to return to the forest whenever you wish when you are king? You think you'll be able to return at all? I was lucky enough to be vol [1], half-cur and entirely unwanted in court, without royal blood to get in my way."

"Without royal blood perhaps, little sister. But you have imperial blood, and that has bred truer than in most. Did you not know that our mother was the direct descendant of the Numenorean Empire?" Aragorn took her chin in one hand, bringing her glowering face to his. "If you are vol -" the Dunedain paused at the unfamiliar Wargish word. "- Then it is no shame to be such. And as Lady Galadriel said, so long as you are my sister, you are welcomed in court or the forest as you will."

"Many claim to be descendants of Numenor," Tasana murmured, lowering her eyes. She could not meet his face when his gray irises held that calculating look, at once expectant and at the same time beyond all hope of encouragement. She feared she would fail whatever test those eyes would give her; feared it not so much for not being able to measure up to that high standard on a personal level, but because her failure would destroy her brother's last hope. Raised apart, she had never had anything to give him. It was the very least she could do to allow Aragorn to cling to that as yet unvoiced hope by not failing his test, even if the only way to do so was to avoid taking it.

"Aye, but not all can claim a firstborn line to Tar-Miriel herself." Aragorn kissed her cheek, and she gave him a reluctant half-smile.

"Miriel, eh?" Tasana gave an uncaring shrug. "The one who abandoned the throne? There's a wonderful role model for your kingship."

The tall man chuckled, a ray of sunlight passing briefly over his dark and sober features. "Perhaps so. Miriel was not stubborn enough to handle the responsibility of ruling. It gives me hope that not all women in my family are mules."

She butted him playfully, breaking his grip on her chin. "Better a mule than a frightened mouse that must leave the haystack every time the lordly farmer comes for his share of the crop of wealth. And better a Warg than either, for she needs not the farmer and the city at all."

"Aye, but even the wolf must hunt for its family. With power comes responsibility. I accepted that a long time ago," Strider said more seriously. "You'd best accept that as well. If we don't come back from Mordor, you're my heir, Tasana."

"You'll come back," she said fiercely, gripping his arm. "You have to come back."

"We've been extremely lucky so far, Tasana. But you must return to Minas Tirith. The worst is yet to come." He could not coddle her. Surely the children of Gondor knew the dangers of Mordor, probably knew them more thoroughly than any Dunedain clan. Tasana had been born and raised to fight the Black Tower, and she held few illusions of the improbability of returning from Mount Doom alive. Aragorn knew he would have to dispel any remaining fancies his sister held, and for a moment the reality of his own mortality almost overwhelmed him. Not until he stood with his sister in this land of his ancestors, cut off from the rest of his friends by a small patch of forest that suddenly seemed intolerably thick and overgrown, had Strider faced the reality that he probably would die on this quest, ending the last direct father-to-son lineage to Isildur.

Or so his death would have, if he hadn't discovered Tasana. Certainly, she was a woman and had only an indirect relationship to the old ruling house of Gondor, but given time and experience, Chev'yahna would make a just monarch, sympathetic to the needs of her people. She was impetuous and stubborn, and perhaps too emotional for her own good, but with age would come serenity and judgment.

Besides, Strider knew Boromir would remain loyal to her, come what may. For a moment Aragorn saw her as he imagined, a proud young queen, beloved by her people. And very beautiful beneath her scruffy hunter's garb as well, Strider noted. Boromir would have quite a time fighting off fellow suitors. If this queen was to be his legacy, Aragorn expected he could die leaving a much worse impression on his world.

"So I'll come with you." These thoughts had flashed through Aragorn's mind in a matter of seconds, but Tasana had caught the emotions his face briefly betrayed. Proud and stubborn as a mule, and more empathetic than any mother Strider had ever known. Whatever happened to them, Aragorn doubted these things would ever change in his sister.

"I doubt Boromir would appreciate that," he chided her gently with a small, tearful half-smile. "Besides, someone's got to keep him out of trouble."

"We'll bring him along, then. Someone's got to keep you out of trouble as well." Tasana gave him a playful push to stop him from seeing the tears in her own eyes. "In any case, even Boromir admits there is very little we can do for Gondor until the Ring is neutralized."

Strider gave up the argument, knowing he would get no other answer from his sister right now. "Why don't you go hunt something, Chev'yahna? You're too nervous to be much of a help around camp. We could all use a hot meal for once, anyway."

"You're avoiding the subject, Aragorn. How does a ranger become a king?" she asked, her voice breaking in anger, sorrow, and frustration.

"How did a merchant's daughter become a woods-woman?" He asked her in turn, an odd light in his eyes. _If only we knew the answers to those, Tasana. And more importantly, how does she become a queen? _"Now go get some meat, Tasana; venison would be good, if you can find any deer." The Dunedain tossed his sister a quiver, waving her off. Both would have questions to ponder over dinner.

* * *

1. Vol-Wargish for "wanderer," a wolf without a pack.


	19. Going Mad Over Cliffhangers

A/N: You think I have even the remotest chance of claiming these? Of course they're Tolkien's. Tell me when it's my turn to bring chips & dip to MSA, Dread Lady Freya. (What, you think I'd give that away?) Dutch's Girl, you're probably right on the bow. While I don't think he'd have much trouble pulling it, a six-foot weapon of destruction is a bit awkward to transport. It's now changed, for future readings.

* * *

After he returned to camp, Aragorn told the others: "Tomorrow we'll separate. I'm no wizard and I can't make your choices for you. It will ultimately be up to each of you individually on whether you ought to go to Gondor or Mordor." Frodo said he wished to go for a walk to think things through, and Aragorn let the hobbit go with a gentle warning not to stray too far from camp.

Frodo wandered aimlessly, his thoughts more upon the Ring than the path in front of him. He made his way up to a high stone platform in this fashion, gripping the chain about his neck firmly with one hand. Facing southeast toward the tower of Mount Doom in contemplation of the next step of his task, Frodo never noticed the tawny-haired form behind him. "It's not safe to walk the forest alone, Frodo," the tall, unexpected being said, sending the hobbit jumping two feet into the air.

"What news, Boromir?" Frodo asked, attempting to shake off his initial fear. Despite this, the Ring Bearer's suspicions rose with every step the man took toward him.

"Chev'yahna's returned with a roe buck in tow. It's cooking now, whenever you're ready for dinner." Boromir gathered up another couple of sticks into the sizable bundle he held under one arm. He gestured openly with the last of these branches. "You look like you could use some friendly advice, Master Baggins. Do you want to talk about it? You know I'll always be willing to help you with this."

"Indeed." The hobbit said with a soft, biting tone. "Your words would ring true were it not for the warning in my heart."

"Warning? I'm just a friend trying to help you." The Steward's son affected indignant surprise.

"It is a warning against delaying any further. A warning against the path that seems easiest. And, though I hate to admit it, it is above all else a warning not to trust you." Frodo stood as tall as he could, one hand on the Ring and the other upon his blade; the inheritance of his uncle's adventures.

"What witch has corrupted your mind? I seek only to ease your burden." Boromir took a step toward the hobbit, his free hand opened toward the Ring Bearer beseechingly.

"It will only be lightened when _this_ has been cast into the burning pits of Mordor," the hobbit said tightly, clutching the Ring to his throat.

"Why must you be made to suffer so much over such a thing, Frodo? Such a little thing…" A long hidden malady glazed the prince's eyes. "Give it to me, Frodo. Perhaps it corrupts the weak-hearted, but my will is strong enough to fight corruption. I do not desire it for a dark lord's power, simply to protect my people. For in the right hands it could be a great strength for our side. And only the strongest, most ruthless survive and triumph. I am willing to use that strength, even if you and Strider are too afraid, hiding until Sauron's armies ride down atop you. Why don't you let the boldest use it? If you and the Dunedain are too womanish to use a powerful weapon when it falls into your lap, why don't you let a real man lead you?" In the distance the wolves howled a warning, an ominous chorus to Boromir's raving delusions of grandeur. Frodo had backed as far away from him as possible, but he could not keep from the madman forever. "And they tell us to throw it away!" Boromir continued. "If we had a chance of destroying the Ring I would have a different opinion. But is sending it with one small halfling into our enemy's greatest stronghold where he has every chance of reclaiming it really the best plan the council of the wise could come up with? You're afraid, Frodo. I cannot blame you." Boromir, easily twice Frodo's height and weight, all pure muscle, loomed over the small hobbit. "Simply let me attempt my plans, will you?"

"The council entrusted the Ring to me," Frodo choked out.

"You can blame it on me," Boromir said more gently. "You can say I was too strong and overpowered you. For I am much too strong for you, halfling!" Dropping the bundle of firewood, the big man lunged at Frodo. "The Ring came to you by chance. It could have been mine. Should have been mine. Give me the Ring!" Boromir growled as Frodo dodged him behind a rock. Not wishing to face the onslaught any longer, Frodo slipped the One Ring onto his finger and disappeared utterly from view.

Boromir stood in shock. Then he heard the crunch of the previous autumn's leaves going down the hill of Amon Hen. "I see your mind now, you treacherous halfling, you little thief!" he cried out, drawing his sword. "You'd take the Ring back to Sauron and betray us all to your master!" Boromir started to run after the invisible Ring Bearer, but then he tripped over one of the scattered sticks and fell flat on his face. The blow to his head was finally enough to clear Boromir's deranged senses. "What have I done?" he whispered, not bothering to get up off the ground. "Frodo! Come back, Frodo! A madness possessed me, but it has passed. I beg of you, please come back!"

Frodo, meanwhile, was running away as fast as his bare furry feet could carry him. Boromir was hardly his only concern. After this standoff Frodo knew he could tarry no longer, but he knew not where to go. He ran through the forest, his vision blurred by tears and the strange properties of the Ring. His only immediately rational thought was to avoid the campground. Boromir would return there soon with the news that Frodo had fled from him. The Ring Bearer doubled back along his path, flying up to the very top of Amon Hen where he sat ill at ease upon the stone dais of the ancient kings of old.

Once again, the hobbit was seeing a vision of the terrors of Mordor under the influence of the Ring and his frightened wits. And this time Sam was not there to shake him out of the dream. Frodo felt the burning eye of Sauron upon him, and thought he heard Nagzül sniffing out the Ring just behind the terrified hobbit. The eye seemed to demand its Ring from Frodo. "No! I defy you!" he heard himself shouting, even while some twisted part within Frodo that he had never before been aware of wanted to run to the Eye of Sorrow, run to its master. This latter part of him was slowly taking control as his courage weakened under the continued glare of the fiery eye.

_"Take off the Ring you fool!"_ a voice told him. It had no external source that Frodo recognized; yet the wise council sounded far too much like Gandalf to have come up from inside the hobbit's torn subconscious. It sounded like the most reasonable advice he had heard all day, despite the fact that Frodo could not decide if he was hearing ghosts, going mad, or both. He slipped the Ring off and counted solely upon his race's natural ability to hide until he got back in range of the camp. The hobbit heard the voices of his friends calling for him, spreading out among the trees. Steeling himself, Frodo put the Ring on and waited for the last of the group to leave the area.

Boromir had indeed told the others about Frodo's disappearance, through not the reasons behind it yet. Aragorn had been distrustfully scowling at the Steward's son, guessing silently at the truth. Tasana had looked strangely relieved. The others seemed too agitated by Frodo's flight to divine his motives yet. They had left Sam's warm cuisine untouched, the younger hobbits calling and running for Frodo, heedless of the dangers of the forest, the rest of the company not far behind.

Samwise and Aragorn had been searching together when Frodo's old friend figured out the Ring Bearer's scheme. Not even stopping to warn Strider in his rush to get back to the boats, Sam was just in time to see one of the vessels push off from shore without any apparent passengers or propulsion. "Mister Frodo! Wait for me!" Sam shouted. He waded hip-deep into the swiftly moving water and attempted to dog paddle out to the boat.

"Go back, Sam. Samwise… you can't even swim!" Frodo's agitated voice came from the empty boat. Paddling over to the place where Sam floundered in the undertow, Frodo grabbed his hand and hauled his bedraggled friend into the boat. Then he took off the Ring, appearing suddenly out of thin air with a long-suffering sigh. "I could have been well on my way to Mordor now if it weren't for your blasted interference, Sam," Frodo said, paddling to shore.

"And leave poor liddle ol' Sam behind? That'd be awful cruel, Mister Frodo." The younger hobbit shook himself, attempting to wring out his elven cloak.

Frodo couldn't help but smile at his friend, but nevertheless he tried to keep a serious face. He could not take Sam, no matter how much Samwise wanted to go. No matter how much Frodo wanted to take the younger hobbit with him. "I have to be cruel in order to be kind. I don't want anyone else to have to suffer through this." The expression sounded empty to even Frodo's ears. Yet he had convinced himself of the truth of these words what seemed like a decade ago; was it only two nights before that he had decided to go to Mordor alone?

"I'm not lettin' you go without me, Mister Frodo, and that's a fact. That'd be just cruel hard. I promised Gandalf I'd stay with you and I'm gonna keep that promise." Pippin and Merry had not made such pledges of loyalty, although they too would probably have joined Frodo as well, had they known. It had been Merry who had gotten the three young hobbits under Frodo's window that fateful night. Merriadoc and Peregrine, the old scamps, had been able escape Gandalf's attention, of course, but Samwise was too slow and had been lifted bodily through the window and thrown to the floor, where he whimpered out all he had heard under questioning and stammered out a promise to help Frodo through his quest. Not that Sam regretted that promise. He would have followed his best friend in any case.

"I suppose there's no changing your mind then?" Frodo sighed as his friend nodded determinedly. "Grab your pack, then, and let's go." They left the fellowship behind, never really noticing the horn blasts or wolf howls rising in the distance. "You know, Sam… I'm really glad you came along." Frodo added after a moment, smiling as they paddled toward an uncertain future. "It's nice to have a friend with me."


	20. Blood, Hope, and Deus Ex Machina

A/N: Of course it's all about M.E., Lady Freya! Middle Earth, that is. And that belongs to Tolkien, so one could say it's all about him. It's great to have a frequent reviewer, though, so I'll let you in on a little secret. Check the title. Your answer's in there.

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Tasana wished Frodo were with her just then. If she understood the young Wargs correctly, they had spotted orcs in the area. Frodo would be able to pinpoint orcs, if any, with that elven blade of his. That trumpeting in the distance was not an orc horn, but it sounded at least as foreboding of trouble to come. Every good citizen of Gondor should know the call of that trumpet: it had been passed down from the Steward to his heir for generations. 

Tasana passed quickly from the top of one tree to another, hoping to use the old limbs for the advantages of shooting angle and surprise for as long as possible. She moved as fast as she could, cursing her injured arm that kept her from charging into the battle with a drawn scimitar. She had come too late for either sword or bow, despite her efforts for speed. There were a good twenty corpses there, with the rest of the orcs fleeing from the wolves of the South Woods and a furious northern ranger. "You missed the hunt, Chev'yahna," a younger member of the pack greeted the woman in the treetops. "We will eat well tonight!"

"How are the pack members?" Tasana asked after greeting him in turn. She didn't see a single wolf carcass, but in the center of the glen–

"Our pack hunts well. None of the Wargs were hurt," the brown Warg said with a noticeable trace of pride, but then he followed her eyes to the glen, laid back his ears and tucked his tail between his legs fearfully. "Your yearlings were stolen, though, Chev'yahna, and your mate is dying." He licked his muzzle with a lowered head, showing his sympathy for her loss.

"Mi – _my_ _mate_?" Tasana finished in the Common Tongue, reverting back to the language of her birth in her shock.

"Come," the hunter replied gently. The youngster was probably no more than a yearling himself, Tasana noted unconsciously, yet wise and delicate beyond his years.

She knelt beside her brother, examining their patient's physical condition to try to avoid thinking about who it was. Three arrows had penetrated his armor, and there was evidence that he had pulled a fourth out already. Blood everywhere. Broken rib or two on his right side, probably a dislocated shoulder as well. "– Tried to take the Ring from him, chased him away. It's my fault Pippin and Merry were captured –" Babbling: probably due to lightheadedness from shock and blood loss. At least there was no significant damage to major organs. None of the individual wounds were deadly, due to some small mercy of the gods, but altogether – most men would not survive this long. She pulled out her herb bag and healer's knife, ripping the patient's shirt off. "Please, my Chev'yahna. Let me go. Let me die." He weakly reached for her hand with his left.

"Nonsense," Tasana pushed his blood-covered hand back down, reining in thought and emotion. "Boil some water, Aragorn," the younger healer said in a businesslike manner that neither needed nor tolerated a reply. She made quick incisions to remove the arrow points, and then used a bent sewing needle to stitch up the wounds with quick, neat efficiency and very thin thread. Just because her mother had trained Chev'yahna as a Dunedain herbs woman did not mean Celenel had neglected the more useful of traditional women's skills in the swordswoman's education. Both Strider and the fallen warrior seemed a little surprised at her cool headed needlework. "Now there's a big boy, didn't even scream." She felt her stiff self-imposed barriers falter at the tears in his warm hazel eyes and she bent to shyly kiss them away.

"I love you, Tasana." The eyes of the man she had fallen for closed in a deathlike sleep. But he was not dead, not yet, the healer assured herself as she checked his shallow breath. If only he did not look so pale…

"The bandages are boiled," Strider reported.

"You added Kingsfoil?" Chev'yahna asked automatically. Kingsfoil was uncommon in Gondor leech-craft, but Celenel Rivermerchant had always sworn by the wonder herb's miraculous curative powers. If there were any help to be found in ancient Dunedain remedies, Tasana would willingly take it.

"Don't presume to instruct a healer in his own craft." Her brother said in a mock serious tone. He draped the hardening linen first atop the patient, and then the ranger gently lifted the unconscious man as Tasana wrapped it tightly about the warrior's ribcage to set the bones and stop the bleeding.

Reaching into her bag for willow bark, Tasana ran her fingers across her present from Lady Galadriel. _It may yet give hope to one who has none…_ The healer had never needed hope more than now. She stuck an end into the boiling water, and then gritted her teeth as the hot metal penetrated her wrist. A small amount of blood dribbled from the other end. Supporting her hand with her herb bag, Chev'yahna lay half atop Boromir and inserted the open end into his left wrist, opening and closing her hand to keep his donated lifeblood flowing.

"What are you doing, Tasana?" Aragorn asked her, at once curious and afraid for his sister's sanity.

"Healing him," she answered tersely. Tasana kept her face close to Boromir's to monitor his breathing, her free hand resting lightly against his chest.

"You almost look like lovers," Strider joked halfheartedly, trying to lighten his sister's mood.

"If that's what it takes." Her tone hadn't changed, but there was a bittersweet light in her eyes as her brother knelt next to her, gingerly laying a hand on her shoulder. "He's proposed, Aragorn. Two nights ago."

"And I take it you accepted?" Strider asked her gently. The Dunedain could feel no jealousy for Boromir whilst he was in this pitiable condition. Even without vocal affirmation from his sister, Aragorn knew the treachery she had feared had passed, tearing the company apart. Pippin and Merry were lost, and the ranger knew not the fates of Legolas, Gimli, Frodo, or Sam.

"No, not yet. I don't plan on getting married until you produce another heir." So Tasana still clung to futile hopes, even after all that had come to pass? How Aragorn wished he could have a fraction of her optimism! Sighing, the ranger buried his memories of Arwen's sweet touch and grasped for a more reasonable way to settle Chev'yahna's hopeless demands.

"If you're so adamant about it, I'll name one of our cousins my heir." Aragorn hid the torment that rose up within him under an air of disaffected gruffness that might make Gimli look like a bleeding-heart beside the ranger. Had the dwarf foreseen his own end as well?

"You won't be able to call me your sister within twenty leagues of Minas Tirith, then. Or don't you know Gondor's property laws?" Gondor didn't allow women as many rights as the Dunedain clans, but the society was at least not so backward as to prevent wives and sisters from inheriting from husbands and unmarried brothers.

_You don't have to worry about me blurting that out at an inopportune time, Tasana,_ Strider thought bitterly. _I'll never make it to Minas Tirith._ "What has you so concerned, Tasana?" was all he said out loud. _As if I didn't know._

"I love Boromir and trust him with our lives, Strider, but there are forces in the White City that would find a crowned Steward most convenient. Forces that wouldn't particularly care what happened to Isildur's Heir." Aragorn was afraid that he would never have to worry about Boromir becoming that "crowned Steward"; the man had been too grievously wounded to last the night, despite Tasana's best care.

Yet she had a point. If Boromir died, Chev'yahna would be forced into the very center of Gondor's politics without a guardian. That was a maelstrom the woods-woman was totally unprepared for, and not something to be approached lightly by an untrained novice. No amount of woods sense could prepare her for cutthroat politics at the heart of the largest of the human kingdoms. This gave Aragorn another reason to find a way to do the impossible and escape Mordor. "Good," he growled. "I'd hate to think I'd get bored."

"Why don't you go find Legolas and Gimli? And get that nose fixed, it's been nearly broken off." Tasana said sleepily, tired from a full day of rowing, hunting, fighting, healing, and bleeding.

Aragorn reached up to his face, feeling a sharp tenderness as he touched his nostrils. While tending to Boromir and Tasana, he had been completely unaware of his own injuries. "It's not that bad," the ranger shrugged off the pain and blood. "I'll fix it once we get some downtime."

"Since when did you get any downtime, Strider?" his sister asked teasingly, green eyes half-closed in an exhausted sleep.

Finding the missing elf and dwarf reminded the ranger that two other members of the company were missing as well. Ignoring her gibe, Aragorn asked, "Have you seen Sam? He was right behind me when I heard the horn, but he's disappeared now."

"He went with Frodo." Tasana did not elaborate. The fatigued sleep she had been fighting off had finally overcome her.

"Good night, dear sister. May this latest bit of wizardry work even better than you expect it to, for all our sakes," he kissed her on the cheek. Aragorn sat down next to his sleeping sister and her patient who clung to life with only the thinnest metal rod. The ranger planned to keep watch on them all night if he had to; he certainly would not abandon them alone in the middle of an orc-infested forest with no one on guard.

A brown wolf came and sat down beside Strider. This one was smaller than the gigantic adult Wargs the Dunedain had worked with through the aid of his sister before, but that did not make it any less disconcerting to see something Aragorn had always thought of as a prey animal at best and a dark friend at worst up until the past couple of months sit down next to him of its own volition and attempt to communicate. Wargs had killed his father before he was old enough to ever really have known the man, and now here Aragorn was, depending upon their aid. "You must forgive me. My sister has not yet had the time to teach me your language." Strider said formally to it.

The wolf made some noises the ranger did not understand, giving the man a small, reassuring lick on the face. It sniffed at his sleeping sister, made a guttural whine that sounded like "Chev'yahna" and gave Strider a questioning stare, its head and tail lowered.

"She will heal, but she needs protection. Will you stay on watch?" One part of Aragorn was shocked and disgusted at himself for trusting his sister's fragile life to a wild wolf, but somehow Strider could identify with this young fellow wanderer and knew it was trustworthy. The young Warg raised its head and wagged its tail, as if eager to prove itself in the Dunedain's confidence.

Before he returned to the campsite to check for the missing company members, Aragorn removed the elven lady's gift from his sister's arm, a bandage in hand to tie off her self-inflicted wound. The healer was no more immune to the loss of lifeblood than her patient. To Strider's surprise, the wrist scarred over within seconds of pulling out the silver ivy-covered blood wand. The Dunedain took it loose from Boromir's arm to see an identical scar form before his eyes. Strider made good on his nickname, running to camp as quickly as possible. "Legolas! Gimli!" he called before him. Aragorn hardly dared to hope they had found Frodo, and Tasana had said Sam had gone off to whatever strange places his best friend had disappeared to.

"Aragorn!" the elf welcomed him, reaching up to ruffle the Dunedain's hair as the archer had often done when the ranger had been no more than a boy named Estel, unaware of his heritage and more than eager to run at the young elf lord's side. It was funny how Legolas looked up to Aragorn now that the Dunedain had reached manhood, as Strider had so often looked up to Legolas during his youth. "Have you seen the others?" the archer continued after he and Gimli had greeted Strider. "Frodo and Sam's packs are missing, as is one of the boats."

"They've gone on to Mordor," the ranger answered grimly, needing no more evidence in order to put two and two together. "Pippin and Merry are missing; Boromir said they've been captured. Boromir himself is in critical condition; I don't think he will last the night. My sister is with him now."

Gimli and Legolas stood in shock a moment, and then grabbed their packs. "We can't leave Pippin and Merry to the orcs," Gimli said, hoisting his broad axe.

"As much as I'd like to go with Sam and Frodo, two are as likely to pass through Mordor unnoticed as nine, if not more," Legolas agreed, testing the blade of a dagger against his thumb.

"We have no time to waste, then. We'll have to leave all we don't need behind." Strider sorted quickly through his own light pack that contained most of his worldly possessions. He tossed aside some of the extra firewood. Spring was well on its way, and he would not need the old cloak he had brought from Bree, either. "They'll be driven to Mordor like cattle to the slaughter if we can't catch up with the orcs." The ranger hefted his lightened pack to his shoulders and led the others from the camp. "Let's go find Chev'yahna," Aragorn let loose a small sigh. The group had trusted the Dunedain to lead them, but he had ultimately failed to keep the fellowship together.

* * *

Mi - Wargish for "my" 


	21. Royal Growing Pains

A/N: You know, the Punnett Squares involved in figuring out blood type are one heckuva lot harder when one doesn't know any of the parental types involved. Say, for instance, not because of any linkage group known on Middle Earth, but merely for kicks and giggles, that blood type is based on personality. This would make Captain General Boromir a solid type A, and Denethor, plotter that he is, a B (heterozygous recessive, logically, as his son must be), which leaves Findulias as at least A, possibly AB… And Tasana, despite the misguided attempts from the author, is a Sue; hence she has no personality, hence type O, the universal donor. Yes, Warg actually spent her vacation time working all of this out. Therefore, Warg is an irredeemable biology geek. QED. In other words, Freya, yes, it's an elvish otplay eviceday. But while we're on the subject, blood drives are awesome! You help people, you get a cookie, and you have an excuse to be temperamental, or just plain mental. What could be better?

Welcome, Zurgiea, and thank you for your review. Now, if I gave away all my secrets, the other Sue writers and parodists would be copying me, now wouldn't they? So what the heck, it's not like I own any of this stuff, so I might as well see if I can help others improve. I asked myself that same niggling question that all tenth member authors ask about the girl and the fellowship, but then I try to not stop asking questions. All Sues ask their boyfriend at some point or another "How did I ever live without you?" I attempt to answer that question. And suffering alone is not living. If a purist sore spot comes up, I try to have my characters ask the same questions and work through the problems with the closest I come to resembling logic. Add in a long time love for wolves and the underdog, and "The Hobbit's" rather neutral view on Wargs, and this puppy is no surprise. Whew, sorry, long introduction, folks, but this is the maximum amount of reviews I've gotten on one chapter, so I got a little excited. Translations are at the bottom of the page, or in my profile, for the most part. Without further ado, the next chapter.

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Strider could understand his sister's concerns about leadership. It wasn't so much the lack of freedom that bothered Aragorn, but the stress and guilt that came with the decisions he had to make. Decisions that had led to Gandalf's death. Choices that had left Boromir maddened and severely wounded. After Merry and Pippin were captured, was it any surprise that Frodo had lost faith in the ranger's leadership? Aragorn had expected that he would die before the completion of this journey in all probability, but he had always believed the company would be able to overcome personal discord to stay together all the way to Mordor. Aragorn shook off the black spiral, and then steeled himself. He had been responsible; he had failed. Strider would simply have to learn from these mistakes and carry on. Tasana, Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir were still under his protection; still had faith in his abilities to guide them. For their sakes, he must carry on.

Aragorn knew he would have to make good on that faith and try to find Pippin and Merry. _At least I won't have to worry about surviving Mordor_; he smiled with savage irony as he led the dwarf and elf to where Boromir and Tasana slept in a mutual embrace. If only Aragorn knew what to do once he found the hobbits, if he found them, and where to go after that. And how could the ranger find the two young prisoners with a wounded man in his company? With Tasana's care, Strider was willing to concede slightly better chances for Boromir's survival, but even still the Steward's son would be in no condition to travel. Even if they had a horse available to put him on, the Dunedain didn't think the man would be able to ride for weeks, if ever. All wishes aside, Aragorn knew he must move quickly if he was to save the hobbits, and stay here in orc territory for weeks on end if Boromir was to have a chance to heal.

Strider led Legolas and Gimli into the glen where his sister still laid next to Boromir. The young Warg wagged its tail warily at the ranger, but then greeted the group more warmly after smelling Tasana's scent upon the dwarf and the elf as well. Boromir's eyes fluttered open as Strider knelt to check his vital signs. "Are we dead, Aragorn?" he asked with a low groan. "Never mind. I don't think death would hurt this much." Boromir gingerly felt the wound in his shoulder, careful not to wake the healer resting in his arms.

"My sister is too stubborn to let you die, Boromir, but we didn't have time to give you any painkillers. Let me fix you some tea." Strider smiled gently at his fallen companion. In a futile effort to disguise the extent of his pain, the younger man seemed to take a perverse joy in his wounds. It amazed the ranger that the Steward's heir was still breathing, much less able to complain of his injuries.

"Any chance of venison with that? I'm hungry enough to eat a horse right now." Boromir painfully attempted to raise himself to his elbows, but was stopped due to the spear of pain in his chest and the older man's gently restraining hand.

"Liquids only until you're fit enough to sit up," Aragorn said with a gentle laugh and a shake of his head. "And you'll only postpone that day by pushing yourself too hard."

"Most likely due to lack of proper nutrients," Boromir grumbled, but lay back down.

"Legolas, Gimli, and I are going to track down those orcs that took Pippin and Merry," Aragorn said as he brought Boromir a cup of bitter willow bark tea spiked with the most potent painkillers he could find in his sister's herb bag. Perhaps there was a chance for the younger man after all, provided there was a knowledgeable healer with him and he kept well away from battle…. The Wargs were trustworthy enough, and Tasana, and probably Boromir as well, to a lesser extent, knew these woods like their own blood. Aragorn left most of his herb collection with Chev'yahna, just in case, taking only the bare essentials for the hunt.

Legolas and Gimli hung just outside the edge of the territory marked out by the brown Warg, whispering quietly. After taking a long, hard look at the two men talking in the center of the glen, the young wolf moved off to sit near the dwarf and elf as well, still staring intently at the wounded man with unfathomable curiosity. All three seemed to recognize they were not currently welcome in the glen. Legolas scratched the yearling absently behind its ears, giving his long time friend a moment's privacy.

"I've failed you, my brother," Boromir said softly. "I couldn't keep the orcs from kidnapping them, and now I'm naught but dead weight for you to drag around. I've failed us all."

"Don't be so quick to admit failure. No one expects you to hold off an army of orcs by yourself, Boromir. You've served the company nobly and bravely, but now you must rest here and heal until you are well enough to get back to Minas Tirith." Glancing briefly to his sister who still slept peacefully next to Boromir, Aragorn added with a wan smile, "By then, perhaps, you will truly be able to call me brother."

"So I hope, my king," The Steward's son gave the Dunedain the left-handed version of the traditional Gondor salute, fist to chest; his proud head slightly bowed in a gesture of fealty. Boromir could be a dangerous enemy, but with the simple gesture Strider recognized that he would not have to fight the younger man over the healer or the Ring ever again. If they survived the coming war, Aragorn would be proud to welcome Boromir into the family.

"Tell Chev'yahna goodbye for me, Boromir," Legolas returned the fallen man's salute, entering the glen upon soundless feet.

"Tell her yourself, you old wildcat." Tasana stretched and sat up next to Boromir. Despite the archer's noiselessness, the elf had roused the sleeping healer by activating an uncanny sixth sense through some subtle scent or movement. "Now where are you three off to?" She cocked her head as the young Warg shook with joy. Only the dwarf's restraining hand upon its scruff prevented the brown yearling from tackling her, its tail beating against Legolas and Gimli's legs as it whined with pleasure at seeing the woman sitting up in repose. The huntress wrapped her arms around her legs, her head resting on her knees as she waited for the others to explain. The healer had suffered something of a blackout of shocking memories after the battle, as her patient had. So concerned had she been for Boromir's safety, Tasana had barely registered the disappearance of the hobbits.

"After Merry and Pippin," Gimli said, his customary gruffness softened as the harsh reality that they might never meet again sank in. "We'll save you a couple of orc necks, Chev'yahna."

"Ach, what's the point if you're not there to share the bloodbath with your friends?" She caught Boromir's hand briefly in her own before standing with her brother. "Just let those orcs know they picked the wrong hobbits to mess with and cut down a few in the pack's honor." Pushing the excitable young Warg off, Tasana knelt so her face was even with the dwarf's.

Gimli turned away, mumbling. "Certainly, my friend," he said, hiding is tears as best he could as she embraced first him, then Legolas, and at last her brother, wishing them a safe journey. "For the honor of the pack and the Fellowship."

"Let me send some of the hunters with you, Aragorn," Tasana suggested as she said her farewells to the Dunedain. "You'll move much faster on wolf back than afoot, and the Wargs can track better than the best sharp-eyed ranger."

"Tasana, you need all the defenders you can get in these orc-infested woods." Strider argued to no avail. The small brown wolf that had stood guard duty was now talking to the woods-woman.

"You are as yet too small to carry my brother, but my yearlings could use rides, once you find them." She replied to some gestured request that the ranger had not understood. "Find four more hunters, Gaundalan, and take my zwiero-Sekrahc and his companions on the hunt. We shall meet you outside the High Walls." Aragorn assumed Sekrahc translated as brother or something similar, but he didn't follow her rapid suggestions in Wargish following that comment. He assumed they were discussing which hunters would have the dubious honor of carrying the last three members of the fellowship to find Merry and Pippin and then transporting them to wherever these "High Walls" were.

Aragorn was not fond of the responsibilities of leadership, but he chafed even more at having his future decided for him without even the words to understand it, much less have his own say. Strider choked back his complaints philosophically as Chev'yahna ended with what was obviously a formalized blessing in Wargish that he suspected did not translate to the Common Tongue. He would present his arguments to the healer in an organized fashion as soon as she finished talking to the Wargs.

"Tas-" Aragorn started intelligently as the brown wolf ran off for the lucky pack members with an almost doglike bark.

"Don't worry, Aragorn, Gaundalan won't be too much of a nuisance, even if he is impressionable, and a bit of a hero-worshipper," Tasana interrupted breezily with a flick of her wrist before placing the hand confidently upon her brother's shoulder. "He's young and maybe a bit overeager, like me, but he has a certain mettle in his character that may yet prove him useful. There'll be one more youngling in the group, Valenska. She's been on her first few hunts already and knows how to obey a leader. She may also come in handy for translation; while the Wargs can understand you, I doubt you can understand the Wargs, aye?"

Aragorn nodded, but could not get his objections out. "Wait, Chev'yahna-" the dwarf managed, raising a forestalling hand.

"I'll make sure you'll know the basics, Gimli," Tasana was on a roll again, and when it came to the Wargs, her two-legged friends were quickly learning better than to argue. "Roliran will go with you, of course. He's a little aloof, but I think our beta has taken something of a shine to Legolas, now. He never expected to meet a zwiero with wolf's ears." The elf smiled gently and tapped a finger to his interestingly described features, shaking his head as Strider tried once more to argue the need for his sister's protection. "Parcha will be more than eager to hunt orcs, I'm sure, and as an escapee from Mordor, she'll know every breed of orc from the Lonely Mountain to the Southern Plains. For a fifth … Well, I suppose Wirsahnkor will do. He's short, and has a steady gait. It'll be just like walking, Gimli."

"I'm sure," the dwarf muttered sarcastically. He had not enjoyed his previous riding experience, and was not looking forward to a second one.

"Chev'yahna, seriously, I won't leave you and Boromir unprotected. Please, call off your wolves," Aragorn said, sensing a rare pause for breath between asking the Wargs for help and getting the men upon their mounts. He wouldn't be too surprised if his sister physically sat them down if he protested too much.

"Five Wargs will not make that much of a difference in a pack of thirty-seven, but it could impact your chance of finding the hobbits greatly. Boromir tried to save them, so I figure it's my duty to do all I can toward helping my mate's goal and saving our friends," Tasana kissed her brother quickly as the wolves came into view. "For luck, Strider Swiftfoot. Yahn T'ahn kursh T'scheckna." She repeated the blessing to the pack. Aragorn was ready to throw everything to the winds at the tears in his sister's eyes. If the hobbits were taken to Mordor, so be it. He could not leave his sister like this, not so soon after finding her. An older, one-eyed wolf with an evil-looking network of scars bumped him impatiently, but he refused to move.

"Ki!" With that single imperious syllable and gesture, Aragorn knew the healer not only could become the queen he imagined her as, his little sister already was. Galadriel was right. Whether she realized it or not, Chev'yahna had a strong control over this pack. Now it was time for him to stop moping and brooding and show that he, too, had the imperial blood in his veins. Tasana was Queen of Wargs; now it was time for Aragorn to become King of Men, not foist the job off mentally on the woods woman. He mounted up on the already anxious wolf and flew at his friends' side, unwilling to look back at his sister. There was no need for such a gesture, he knew now. The pack was an extension of Tasana: through their company, she would go with him; even while the woman herself remained at Boromir's side.

* * *

The Dunedain shortly found himself riding hot on the iron-shod heels of the orcs, the wise old tracker beneath him doing the real work. Legolas and Gimli flanked him on another pair of experienced hunters, with Gaundalan and the young she-Warg named Valenska running unburdened at their sides. Tasana had given her friends a crash course in the most important Wargish expressions as they had waited for the other hunters to arrive. The healer said that this young female could teach them the rest upon the way.

Not too far from the glen, the great Warg Aragorn rode upon pricked up her ears in an expression of excitement. "It seems we've already caught up with some of our foes," Legolas said as a heap of black forms appeared before them. Five orcs, killed with their own weapons or such similar. Tasana possibly could have taken them out, Strider supposed, but the healer had had no new battle wounds when she had helped save Boromir's life.

"Curious and curiouser," Aragorn murmured when the Wargs detected no earlier sign of woman nor wolf. The Dunedain knelt to examine the bodies, noting that all the dead wore patches depicting a crude red eye. A number of those he and Boromir had killed wore a badge with a white hand, or occasionally, a tattoo of a stylized **S** in the same hue. Sauron's goblins always used red, and were never allowed to use the Dark Lord's true name. Was there discord in the enemy forces? A traitor, perhaps?

A hidden ally seemed too much to hope for, but any disagreement that thinned out the ranks of orcs would be useful, the ranger reflected as he remounted the wolf his sister had introduced as Parcha'kahnsta. The Wargs sniffed out the rest of the horde and continued on.

* * *

Wargish Glossary

Chev'yahna – Healer, name given to Tasana by the South Woods pack

High Walls – Pidgin Westron for the Tower of Isengard, where a pack known to be friendly to South Woods Wargs is located

Ki – go

Sekrahc – alpha male

Yahn T'ahn kursh T'sheckna – Wargish blessing, roughly, "Good shall conquer evil, if it pursues."

Zweiro – Bipedal, i.e., humans, elves, orcs, etc.


	22. Overgrown Fleabags

A/N: Ah, yes, the Warg scene… I swear I wrote this up before ever laying eyes on PJ's version of the Two Towers, much less the extended edition. But every fangirl claims she came up with her Mary Sue on her own, so I must give credit where credit is due. I own diddly squat, including that, so it's a moot point. Have your ents talk to my ents. They're nonexistent. Yes, very bad pun, I'll stop now before I hurt myself. Oh, yes, minor swearing and major sappiness here. You know why it's rated PG.

* * *

"So what's the damage count, Chev'yahna?" Boromir asked as she wrapped her cloak gently about his bared shoulders. He felt bruised all over, but the foul tasting brew Strider had given him was working a small miracle in dulling the pain. Now that he could almost think straight without shock and gaping battle wounds to dull his wits, Boromir raised himself stiffly to his elbows, ignoring the lancing protests of his right side to take stock of his situation.

Merry and Pippin were gone, and it was Boromir's fault. Perhaps the ranger was right, and the younger man couldn't be held responsible fighting off all those orcs, but if the Steward's son hadn't sent Frodo running off in terror, the others wouldn't have been out separated in the forest in the first place. Boromir welcomed the muddled lightheadedness that came from blood loss, as he felt sickened by his recent memories.

Strider was a good man, but Boromir was restraining a growl of frustration at the king's philanthropy. He should have left Boromir to his fate, after all he had done; and gone on about claiming his destiny. That was the kindest thing Aragorn could do for the steward's son at any rate. The Dunedain had a kingdom to claim, an elven lady's hand to win, and an enemy to defeat. All Boromir had had were a battle he could never win and his pride. His towering, maddening pride. The arrogance of his downfall, the sheer stupidity of attempting to take the Ring, it drove him half mad. Were he sound enough of frame to do so, Boromir would have gone to bash his blatantly hard head against the nearest tree, or better yet, cliff face. He feared he might have knocked down the tree. Elrond had warned him, Gandalf had warned him, Strider had warned him, even Faramir had warned him against such a course of action, Boromir remembered vaguely through the haze of pain and anger, and his younger brother had had no idea what he would find in Rivendell. And still he had ignored all of these warnings in a misguided effort to prove his power and strength of will, as if he had ever had a reason to be so prideful. If he had truly been strong of will, he would have ignored that siren song of the Ring and helped Frodo, as he had sworn to. The others had resisted it. Why could he not?

"Everything's in T'sheckna, love," Tasana broke into his gloomy thoughts with a Wargish curse and a kiss. "But it could have been much worse. At least Frodo got away with Sam and the Ring before the orcs showed up. You couldn't trust the Ring to a better pair than those two." She pushed her patient back down good-naturedly and checked his bandage. "Perhaps not the wisest or boldest two that have ever come in contact with it, but they're honest, loyal, and determined to get it destroyed."

"Unlike some of us," Boromir sighed. He was ready to give up all hope of ever being able to sit up with the Dunedain siblings clucking about him. His shoulder _did_ feel better when he relaxed, however. _Damn it_, the warrior silently cursed his injured joint. His right side throbbed mildly in return.

Tasana put down the shirt she was patching and kissed him more thoroughly. "Boromir, my lord and lover, any of us could have fallen under the Ring's spell. It just happened to be you. At least now we're all safe from its influence." She snuggled down close to her sweetheart, laying her head softly against his chest. Her fingers gently massaged the stiffness and pain from his shoulder. "It's getting late, though, Boromir. There's really nothing more we need to do tonight. Let's go on to sleep."

"Tasana, are you all right?" Boromir asked her, running his left hand up and down her spine. She looked so tired, so worried. Was this what Chev'yahna had always seen in his eyes?

"Considering how my vagabond brother and his impetuous friends so thoughtfully left the campground for us to clean up in our own sweet time, between orcs running amok and making sure you're not overextending yourself, as well as can be expected," Tasana complained lightly, but her gentle grumbles gave way to appreciative purring as he stroked her. "We'll take a few days to rest and recuperate, and then we'll catch up with the others. Even our Strider Swiftfoot can't go too far without stopping for sleep," Chev'yahna murmured drowsily.

"How long is 'a few days?'? Will I be healed by the end of this week? This month?" Boromir questioned her, his hand stopping in its rhythmic motion along her spine as the other pulled her face from against the hollow between his neck and shoulder. As much as Boromir loved cuddling with her, he wanted to learn the extent of his condition before the healer drowsed off, and she was more likely to do so when she was within the warmth of his arms.

Rising to her extended arms pushed straight off the ground, her dark hair framing her face as she bit her lower lip in contemplation, possibly in shock as well, but Boromir did not want to consider that, Tasana examined his wounds more thoroughly. "At least three to four days for the stitches, if you don't move around too much," she pronounced. "And your ribs won't fully heal for three weeks, minimum. I'd say you won't be able to stand for another couple of days and unfit to ride for a week."

"I know you'll probably recommend rest and lots of sleep, Tasana," Boromir said, rising to kiss the concerned but vaguely comical expression from the woods-woman's face, "But I can think of some things I would much rather be doing while we're alone and I'm confined to the bed."

"Try me, if you think you can, my lord," she returned with a devilish smile alighting upon the corners of her mouth. Her hands had strayed far from his shoulders, but despite his willingness, the injured man found himself unable to fully respond to her touch.

"Oh how the gods tease me, my beloved!" he sighed, pulling her hands into his. "I can't, Chev'yahna. I feel as if I've been in a healer's bed since I met you, yet fate has obviously declared I shall never have you." A self-depreciating smile tugged at the corner of the wounded warrior's mouth, bringing his lover's lips to his.

"You already do have me, Boromir, regardless of your knowledge of me. But wounds will heal, even those to manly pride, given enough time. It's enough to hold you tonight, to be in your arms, so long as you love me." The woods-woman stroked his still pale cheek.

"I do, Tasana, I do." They kissed once more before settling down for the night. Tasana pillowed her head upon his shoulder with one arm supporting Boromir's head, prepared to wake at the slightest change in his breathing.

The pair slept peacefully that night, but the next morning she felt him tense and stiffen, clutching her close to his chest. "Where is my sword, Tasana?" he asked tightly, his voice on the edge of panic. Boromir's brown eyes were wide and riveted on a point just beyond her head.

"It's broken. Stay down," Tasana whispered back, slowly drawing her scimitar and turning to face their unknown assailant. Rolling to her feet, she came up in a fighter's stance, prepared for anything. What was actually there was the biggest Warg that Tasana had ever seen, jet-black with an old, long scar in his side. He stood half rearing above the headless corpse of an orc; his great paw upon its severed, bloody neck. The gigantic wolf had a skull in his mouth, its flesh torn viciously from the bone. The face upon it was broken and ripped, but a crushed orc helmet still covered most of the back. The dark creature dropped his gruesome prize, letting the skull roll to Tasana's feet. The woods woman let her scimitar drop to her side, knowing not what to do in answer to the maimed token. The enormous Warg opened his mouth, revealing teeth that rivaled Mithilira's in size, and laughed, giving the startled humans a generous display of his black-mottled, bloodstained tongue.

"That's hardly funny, Sekrahc Gonaki," Chev'yahna said exasperatedly. "Were you in on this, Boromir?" she accused just as her lover asked her if she knew the Warg, in terms the Sekrahc did not take too kindly to. Secretly, Tasana was slightly pleased to see the alpha male insulted, but knew she probably looked ridiculous herself. She had gone for nearly a month without a decent bath, and her clothes and hair were dirty and travel-stained. It was a good thing none of the fellowship had noses approaching the olfactory systems of the Wargs; or else they would not have been able to stand in the same forest as one another. And here Tasana was jumping at old friends in their own territory! "Aye, and you've met him once before as well, Boromir," the woods-woman explained to her lover. "Gonaki is the Sekrahc, the alpha male, of Mithilira's pack."

"I'll give him corpse-eating fleabag…" the lord Warg growled, his ears flattening dangerously against the sides of his head.

"Calm down, old friend. He is wounded, and wasn't expecting you," Tasana soothed him. Mithilira's name was the one that roughly translated to Quicksilver, but her mate was the one with the mercurial temperament. He still ate like a horse as Tasana recalled, and was expecting pups on the way besides. Gonaki had come for something more than a practical joke. His pack usually couldn't leave off hunting until Mithilira's pups were out of the den.

"He didn't look so big in the dark," Boromir said by way of flustered apology.

"What news, Sekrahc?" Tasana asked the big black wolf.

"The pack south of here has closed off their land. They attack any trespassers, even the lone wanderers." Wolves without a pack were free to travel anywhere so long as they did not try to drive off the local authorities, spreading hunting techniques and genetic differences amongst the packs. Tasana herself had something of a vol status, as she rarely stayed within Gonaki's territory for more than a few weeks at a time. She returned home when she had to, but more often Tasana wandered to keep out of her father's reach than within it. She had met the pack that lived on the junction of the Isen and Great Anduin Rivers a few times before, as their alpha was Gonaki's littermate and sympathetic to the woods-woman's wanderings, having been forced out of his home himself as a yearling. This hardly sounded like the work of the gentle Sekrahc Sahnchanc Tasana had met. Gonaki's younger brother had never been the fierce type, keeping his position in his pack more for his canny hunting strategies and friendship with the wizards of Isengard than a warlike nature. Had someone overthrown the Sekrahc of the High Wall's pack?

"Unthinkable," Tasana murmured. Unlike his brother, who distrusted everything on two legs with the occasional exception of Chev'yahna, Sahnchanc had formed an alliance with the wizards as soon as he had settled in the territory of the high walled tower of Isengard. This alliance had served both parties well, for the Warg pack protected the tower from orc forays and Gandalf's associates had provided the wolves with meat during the lean winter months. There was no reason for any of the Isen Wargs to turn against the leader who had brought them to such a harmonious arrangement.

"The trees in their land are being pulled down," Gonaki continued. "I smell orc in this, but I've been unable to contact my brother."

Tasana shook her head. The pack of Isengard had been at peace with her own pack of the South Woods since they had been formed. If the brother alphas could not speak together, there was little hope for a peaceable solution. "I wish I could help you, Gonaki, but I must attend to my patient. Have you contacted the brown wizard? I've heard he is sympathetic to the needs of all creatures." Tasana wished once again that Gandalf were still alive. He would have been able to heal the breach between the packs and discover what had taken possession of Sahnchanc's senses, or at least recommend the black wolf lord to someone who could.

"Wizards are untrustworthy," the jet alpha spat flatly. "It is because of wizards that Sahnchanc's group has turned from us."

"The wizards? But Isengard has always stood against the Black Tower, and knows that we do as well." Tasana was confused. Gandalf obviously had not been about to turn to Sauron while he lived; and surely the head of his order, Saruman, the most powerful wizard ever alive, according to legend, could keep his people in line… Saruman the White, they called him. Tasana picked up the skull by her feet, intensely aware of the white **S **on the crushed helmet. Running a similar line of logic in her mind as that which had passed through Aragorn's, Tasana applied the clue the Warg had given her and arrived at a startling, blood-chilling conclusion: **S** didn't stand for Sauron, as Strider had thought it had but moments before; it stood for Saruman. "The schecking traitor! The bloody, Goddess-damned, schecking traitor!" she cursed in a mix of Wargish and Common Tongue.

"Will someone please explain what is going on?" Boromir asked the perturbed woods-woman. He had only understood a stray word or two of Wargish, but their general tone hinted at a catastrophe.

"This," the healer tossed the helmet to his side, "is evidence of the treason of Isengard. I've no idea of how many we're up against, but you can add the head of Gandalf's order to that number. Saruman commanded yesterday's attack, and most likely the other night's as well."

Coolly ignoring the dark orc blood that stained his war-hardened hands, the injured swordsman picked up the helmet for closer examination. "Do you have any proof, Tasana? Or is this just speculation? Isengard has been a trusted, powerful ally of the White City for generations. If the tower of wizardry turns to Mordor, Minas Tirith is doomed," the Steward's heir stated as flatly as he could, but the prince's tone of voice was very close to revealing panic for those who knew him well. Boromir did not believe her; could not believe his lover's allegations.

But Sekrahc Gonaki had already come to the same conclusion. "We must warn the others," he said. "I'll run after them myself if they don't respond to the howl."

"As soon as Boromir is on his feet I'll come with you," Chev'yahna volunteered. "My brother is walking into a trap."

"And the stolen yearlings are the bait," Gonaki spat disgustedly. The young were the heart and soul of Wargish society. The old wolf could hardly imagine any civilized beings kidnapping young ones, as he viewed the hobbits to be. "This is not a good place for a pack.

* * *

Glossary

High Walls – The Tower of Isengard, home of Sahnchanc's pack

Sekrahc – Alpha male

Sheck (v.) – to kill

T'sheckna – Hell; a Wargish goddess

Vol – wanderer, a wolf without a pack


	23. Pinning Clues Together

A/N: Do you prefer cheese or salsa, Freya? As is obvious from this story, I respect the power of cheesiness. For a small change of pace, I'm participating in a National Strider Awareness week, featuring him in her new chapter and a prologue piece I hope to figure out how to put up without losing everything. Of course, I own nada. 

* * *

This was not a good place for a pair of hobbits, either, Merry would have added. He and Pippin had charged toward Boromir's side when they had heard the horn of Gondor, but two poorly trained, inexperienced hobbits could not succor the wounded swordsman very much. The orc archer standing atop a low rolling hill had continued to fire unchallenged at the tall man despite the hobbits' best efforts to cut a path toward him.

Boromir fell as arrow after arrow found its mark, but then staggered back to his feet, his breathing raspy and his right arm dangling uselessly at his side as he cut away the orcs in his path, his own blood mixing with that of the dead upon his broken armor. Boromir fought with his back against the lone tree in the center of the glen as the orcs tried their steel against his. Merry heard his kinsman shout in horror as poisoned orc metal proved stronger than Boromir's notched blade, and the broadsword shattered as if made of glass. A third shaft struck the warrior in the shoulder, and Merry could no longer tell his own screams from those of the dying.

The last thing he remembered was being picked up as callously as a sack of potatoes, the gigantic orcs casually swatting away his sword and throwing him over a stinking, heavily armored shoulder. Since then he and Pippin had had their hands tied and been forced to run with the horde until they were completely exhausted. Their captors drove them on with whips, curses, and swords. When Merry was sure that he was going to fall down and never get up again, the goblins forced a foul tasting, fiery brew down his throat and redoubled their tortuous prodding.

At least he had been able to keep an eye on Pippin. The orcs were whipping Merry's younger cousin on just as hard, but Pippin's indomitable spirit had allowed him to keep his eyes and ears open. The goblins had not separated the two hobbits, letting them compare notes and plan escape in their precious little downtime. Merry dreamt desperately of running away when he had enough of his wits left about him to think of more than putting one foot in front of the other, but Pippin listened to the orcs' grumblings in an effort to find a means of flight.

And because the orcs came from different lands, they had to use the Common Tongue to communicate with each other, allowing Pippin to understand the most pertinent conversations. The northern goblins of the mountains could not understand the harsh speech of the southern orcs of the Black Tower, and the orcs of Mordor and Moria did not speak the guttural tongue of the Uruk Hai, whom Pippin had never heard of before his capture. All of the orcs argued loudly and bitterly with one another, not caring how much one luckless little prisoner heard of their arguments.

The information Pippin heard was at once heartening and depressing. The orcs had been ordered to leave their captives in one piece, with all their gear. Sauron was obviously planning to torture them worse than in any way the orcs could dream up. Not all the orcs agreed that they should take the hobbits to Mordor, surprisingly.

The Uruk Hai, the largest group of orcs, both physically and in numbers, wanted to bring the prisoners to Isengard. Because they were the biggest, nastiest, and most brutal, the Uruk Hai generally got what they wanted. This time was no exception, although they had had to slaughter four or five dissenters who protested the trip to the tower of Isengard too thoroughly.

"But isn't Isengard where the wizards live?" Merry asked Pippin furtively after his cousin filled him in.

"That's what I thought," the younger hobbit nodded. "But they're not likely to set us free, are they?" They were interrupted by a growl from one of the big Uruk Hai orcs who snapped a whip at them.

"You little rats think you're so smart, don't ya?" he sent the hobbits running with another crack of his whip. "We'll see how smart you are when we get to Isengard," he snickered evilly, knocking Pippin over with the handle of his whip. "Too bad we can't gut ya now, while your juices are still fresh, but Saruman'll know what to do with smart little rats."

As Merry hurriedly helped his cousin to his feet, he noticed the clasp on Pippin's elf woven cloak was missing. Just another sign of abuse they were suffering on this forced march, yet something about the lost leaf-shaped pin piqued Merry's curiosity. He resolved to ask Pippin about it the next time they stopped.

* * *

The pin itself lay dropped, trampled, and forgotten at the edge of the path hacked out by the orcs. Strider, true to his Dunedain heritage, had easily followed the trail of trampled underbrush and scarred trees through the forests and grassy fields, but even the destructive orcs eluded his careful observations on stony ground.

The Wargs had left the company after a sixth hunter had run out with a warning. Valenska, who spoke a broken, heavily accented Common Tongue, had said something about the "white one" in the "High Walls" turning against her "Sekras." She had been adamant that no one should go east of pack territory, or any further south along this route. The little black she-Warg and the older hunters had headed back for Mithilira's den immediately. Gaundalan had remained with the group, but ranged off for longer and longer hunting trips. After no sign of him for two days, Aragorn assumed the little brown wolf had finally left them for good. Strider hoped the Warg returned home safely. Gaundalan had been helpful and loyal to Tasana and her unusual pack mates.

More every day, however, Aragorn missed Parcha'kahnsta, Roliran, and the other trackers who were big enough to carry the group along their route. The company had gotten precious little sleep with the Wargs, drowsing as they rode, and had even less downtime while on their feet. Eventually, the three hunters would have to take a break and set up a rudimentary camp; otherwise the Dunedain, elf, and dwarf would be absolutely useless to Pippin and Merry, collapsing as they ran.

"Any sign of them, Strider?" Gimli asked, switching his hefty battleaxe to his other shoulder. Aragorn hated to give up the chase, but he had been running on pure guesswork as to the orcs' path for the past two days. There was little hope of finding a clue in the stone, but perhaps eyes less heavy from sleepless nights would see more clearly and a mind not dulled from travailing journeys would find pieces to the puzzle more easily. At least the dwarf would stop comparing the ranger unfavorably with orc slave- drivers underneath his frequent gasps for breath.

"Not yet, Gimli," Aragorn replied. "Have you or Legolas had any luck?" The elf shook his head, vaulting atop another rock in an effort to spot a dust cloud on the horizon or some other sign of life, but the archer's eagle eyes were continuing to fail him. "If we don't find anything by tonight, we may have to stop and rest," Strider yawned generously.

"Bah. Resting won't help us find Merry and Pippin," Gimli said stoically, but he too was barely holding back a yawn, blinking heavily and leaning upon his axe.

"Neither will falling flat on our faces with exhaustion." Legolas jumped down from his perch, landing nimbly. "Strider's right. I don't like it any more than you do, Gimli, but we can't take on a legion of orcs without some sleep."

"I'm good for a few days yet," the dwarf grumbled, but he did not continue the argument.

As Gimli went kicking a small stone by the edge of a flatter area of bedrock, Aragorn's thoughts turned to two other missing members of the company. The Dunedain had threatened Boromir with death once, but Strider had no qualms about leaving the wounded man with his sister. Strider was beginning to see something of himself in the younger man, and realized that it was because of these similarities that Aragorn had been so jealous around Tasana. Both he and Boromir were powerful, strong willed men who were falling in love with the woman who called herself Chev'yahna.

Aragorn was just now getting to know his half-sister, just beginning to forge the bonds that should have been well developed thirty years ago. After missing nearly four decades of her life because of not knowing of his sibling's existence, the constant togetherness of this journey had made Strider painfully aware of those family bonds, or moreover, the lack thereof. In an attempt to strengthen their relationship, Aragorn had pulled her too close, denying Tasana a chance to fall for Boromir more gradually. Through his fears of losing his long-lost sister so soon after finding her, Strider had forced an unnecessary clash between Tasana's loyalties as a sister and as a lover.

She had sided with Boromir, and it would take a much greater fool than the ranger felt himself to be for causing the conflict and forcing her hand not to appreciate Tasana's support. _Perhaps_, Aragorn consoled himself; _such adversity to their relationship will insure that Boromir will stay true to the green-eyed healer_. Green. A flash of the color of his sister's eyes shook the Dunedain out of his reverie. "Gimli, stop kicking that stone a minute." The tall ranger stooped to pick up the rock in question and wiped some of the grit from it to reveal a leaf-shaped clasp with emerald-colored inlay. "Not idly do the leaves of Lothlorien fall. This is from Merry or Pippin's cloak," he announced to his friends.

"Well, at least we're still on the right trail," Legolas nodded. "I just hope those two are still alive."

"We'll get to the edge of these rocks and then break camp," Aragorn said. "We now know for sure that the hobbits are with the main body of orcs. The Plains of Rohan are within a day's march from here, and the goblins will be easy to track in the long grass."

"Let's get moving then, Strider," Gimli said eagerly. Although the dwarf was genuinely glad to find some evidence of his missing comrades, Gimli truly hoped his friends read his elation at stopping the march as relief for another sign of Pippin and Merry.

One who watched the dwarf was not so fooled. Quieting the eager brown young wolf at its side with a single gesture, the unseen cloaked figure turned and rode away from the hunting trio.

* * *

Glossary

High Walls- Pidgin for Isengard

Sekras- Alphas


	24. Small Problems

A/N: None of this is mine. This chapter is dedicated to Nienna Telrunya, my first long-time reviewer and unofficial beta on this story when it was first uploaded on Tolkien Online for orcish curses and general nitpicking to make it a bit more cannon loving. If Nienna isn't happy, then I knew the chapter wasn't good enough. Thanks, Nienna, and here's hoping that it's improved somewhat!

Quite naturally, I accept and encourage constructive criticism, even flames. Try some of the orcish, if it suits your fancy. Also, with orcs, I ought to warn the more sensitive readers that this chapter does contain strong language. You were expecting them to be cute and fluffy?

* * *

Gimli was not the only one exhausted from constant travel. Sam and Frodo had landed on the opposite shore far downriver from where they had last seen the company when they encountered a roaring waterfall. There was little hope of portage around the rocky falls with both their heavy gear and the boat to carry, so they abandoned the little rowboat and continued along the riverbank on foot, much to Samwise's relief – and truth to be told, Frodo's as well. Sam's rowing skills had not visibly improved within the last day or so of rowing, and Frodo was a novice boater at best. Just getting the little craft through the rocky shallows had nearly worn him out.

The fact that the older hobbit still felt malevolent eyes watching his every move did not cheer Frodo's weary soul, either. Frodo sensed the badlands were filled with malicious beings hidden behind the scrubby trees and under the rocks, hiding just behind the stone chimneys, all staring at him and awaiting the opportunity to steal his Ring. Ever since Gandalf had hurried him on to Rivendell, Frodo had sensed the burning eye of the Dark Lord upon him. The feeling was even worse after the wizard had died. The burdensome Ring felt heavier and more exposed to that eye with every step the hobbit took toward Mordor. Frodo could not focus on memories of happier days of rest, either, as they made him think all too much of Lothlorien. Lady Galadriel's mirror with its visions of doom had only deepened the hobbit's worst fears.

He could not fail in his quest, or else all that Frodo loved would be eradicated from the land. Yet how could a mere hobbit, whose strength was in literature instead of swordsmanship, succeed in this fool's errand? Destroying the One Ring was suicide, Boromir in all his foaming madness had been right about that. But even if this mission took Frodo's life, as it was very likely to do, it was better than sitting on his hands until Sauron and the Nagzül rode down upon Frodo's childhood home of Bag End in the Shire.

The Ring Bearer looked about the thinning trees. Surely it was merely his overactive imagination. Frodo scanned the surroundings more out of force of habit than from any specific fear of nearby danger, but he thought he saw something bigger than a crow move amongst the tree limbs, staring at the hobbit evilly. Frodo said nothing to Sam, but nudged his friend and nodded slightly up, subtly warning the younger hobbit that they were indeed being watched. Samwise clutched his dagger warily, his hand small and clumsy upon the oversize handle.

The creature in the tree froze as the pair of hobbits stopped in their tracks. "Come on, Sam," Frodo said in an undertone. The air was far too quiet, and Frodo did not want to be the one to break the silence, lest all the demons that haunted his dreams should come out, riding down upon him. He strode onward in what he hoped was an indifferent, casual manner, but his best friend was refusing to move.

"That's Gollum in that tree, Mister Frodo," Sam whispered as the beast turned its glowing yellow eyes upon the hobbits. "Maybe Strider couldn't keep up with that little scamp, but it ain't never taken on Samwise Gamgee before." Sam pulled his blade gauchely out of the leather sheath that was still stiff and reeking of tanning oils, and tapped it against his hand.

"Well, if he continues to follow us we'll have to put him to the test, then, Sam," Frodo turned partially to his friend. "We go into Emyn Muil tomorrow, and that is a maze few can hope to navigate."

Sam still refused to budge. "I don't trust him, Mister Frodo. Best if we get rid of him now, whilst we got him cornered, and that's a fact." The younger hobbit stared disgustedly into the branches overhead.

"There was a time when I would have agreed with you," Frodo said quietly, his gaze following Samwise's into the treetops. "But I've been thinking about what Gandalf told us in the mines. Who are we to judge whether a being deserves to live or die?"

"I suppose you're right, Mister Frodo," Sam sighed. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it." Moving along, Samwise glared up into the treetop, sliding his dagger slowly back into its casing deliberately in view of the shady tree branch from whence ragged breathing issued barely over the evening-songs of perching birds on the western shore and the silky slide of metal on its scabbard. As the hobbits staggered along their tired way, a tree branch rustled, and the soft sound of raspy breathing slipped away towards Emyn Muil.

* * *

At long last, The Uruk Hai conceded to the smaller orcs' griping and stopped for the sunlight to pass, lying in wait under the trees. Falling to the ground and massaging his tried, bleeding feet as best he could with his bound wrists, Merry was not going to complain about the rest. Of course, this meant the goblins were now able to devote their full attentions to their favorite pastime: torturing their captives.

"We've gotten nothin' but damn flagit moldy bread for the past six damned flagit days," one of the Morian orcs carped. "Why can't we just cut their legs off? The bloody lulgijak little rats are just slowing us down anyway." He poked at Merry with his scimitar. After what felt like an eternity of being prodded, whipped, kicked, and otherwise hit, Merry simply curled up into a ball and ignored his latest aggressor. His back was numb to any new pain; it was already crisscrossed with scars and bruises in various states of healing. Sooner or later this orc would get bored and find something else to vent its endless anger upon if he didn't scream.

"Shut up, snaga," the Uruk captain cuffed the Morian. "Saruman wants 'em whole and unharmed, then Ugluk and his Uruk Hai bring 'em whole and unharmed. If you want meat, go catch your own bloody pargijakun meal, or steal it from the crows, if that ain't too hard for the likes of a damn lulgijak sissy carrion-eatin' slave like you." Merry risked looking up in time to see the Uruk draw his own knife. "Now go ahead and talk back. We Uruks have been runnin' in the sunlight without meat for six days, too, and I'd love to have an excuse to gut you, pig." It looked like it was going to come to blows yet again. Merry began to scoot surreptitiously away from the brawlers as the other orcs surrounded them, eager to get their own strikes into the fight.

"Idiots! The stupid little rats are gonna escape while you're fighting. A merry troop of fools you'll look like when you try to explain to Saruman that you were too busy paying attention to your bellies to watch over your captives!" Merry hadn't been as sneaky as he had hoped. Auspiciously the orc who had taken him in hand was the one who usually carried Pippin, and had his fill of violence for one day, or at least enough that he would not try to kill the hobbit. "The lookouts say they've spotted a herd of straw-heads on their bloody pargijakun horses. We've gotta start moving if you fools wanna keep your damned stomachs inside your damned hides and not carry them over your damned shoulders." At this, the goblin threw Merry over one shoulder and picked up Pippin, who was moaning inaudibly in his fevered sleep, and threw him over his other shoulder.

"Butharubat the straw-heads. I'm tried of running," the Morian who had instigated the fight sat down, his arms crossed petulantly. "We're safe in the woods. The straw-heads don't dare ride their horses in here."

Ugluk, the captain of the Uruks, snorted evilly. "With all those fires your group built? Why don't you just go yell out where we are, snaga? I'm not sure the stupid straw-heads have noticed us yet." His fellow Uruk Hai snickered scornfully at this witticism, as various Morians began to draw their weapons threateningly.

"A lot of those fires are from the Mordor orcs, ye cowardly zanguiuk," the smaller goblin spoke up. "You'd best learn not to confuse your betters with slaves." This comment brought the third main group of orcs into the fracas, and the battle started all over again.

"Merry?" Pippin groaned. The poor young hobbit had been passing in and out of consciousness for the last three days. Merriadoc would not shake his cousin from that soothing fog if he could help it, as there was little hope left for the two smallest members of the fellowship. Pippin was the one who had the greatest plans for escape if he could shake off his poisoned fever, but Merry was ready to give up hope and could only wish to fall under the same happy delirium that saved Peregrin from the despair and pain of the journey.

"What is it, Pip?" Although he could never be sure that his younger cousin heard a word he said through his fevered dreams and nightmares, Merry decided to answer him this time, if only to distract himself briefly from the excruciating pain of his every joint and bone and the curses of the malodorous orcs.

"You know what they're after, Merry. Maybe if we give it to them, they'll let us alone." The elder hobbit wriggled in the orc's grasp to give his cousin a hard look. No fever could account for such a suicidal statement, even for someone as obviously thickheaded as Pippin. Fortunately the orc had been edging away from the ruckus, and was probably the only one who had heard Pippin's insane utterance. Their transporter as well was staring at the fevered young hobbit, but rather than Merry's look of absolute disgust, the giant goblin had a look of rapacious covetousness that could hardly be mistaken for any lesser greed.

"You'd best give it to old Grishank then, you little rats," he growled.

"Why should we? _Gollum_," Merry countered, playing upon his cousin's gambit. At least, Merry hoped this was a gambit. "The other orcs would kill you if you tried to search us. And you know the precious will go to Saruman, not Grishank, if you let us be run all the way to Isengard."

"You want a deal, snaga?" The black orc threw them roughly down into the forest leaves, drawing a scimitar that appeared much larger and sharper than Tasana's to Merry's frightened eyes. _It wasn't really dripping poison,_ he tried to reassure himself, but Merry did not want to think of what else might soon be dripping. "You little rats want a deal? I'll give you a deal you won't soon forget, you bloody little rats," the formidable, agitated tormentor growled, brandishing his sword in the hobbits' faces.

"Cut our legs free," Pippin spoke up audaciously. "Then let us go, and we'll give you it, _gollum_."

"I'll cut your legs, rat," Grishank lifted his scimitar to do so, but the sound of hoof beats caused the goblin to start in surprise. He had brought his captives too far to the edge of the wood. The "straw-heads" his companions had cursed and made fun of were now riding down upon Grishank. The orc's cry of mixed anger and fear was cut off into a gurgling scream as the pale-haired horseman drove the sharp steel point of his lance into his throat, summoning a mob of Uruk Hai from their unorganized camp further north into the mêlée.

Merry, however, noticed very little of this, as he and Pippin were attempting to get deeper into the forest before they were trampled by horses and fighters. To his complete surprise, the younger hobbit, who had appeared to be suffering from a fever since shortly after the orcs had captured him, grabbed Merry's arm and guided him through the tangle of legs, dropped blades, and dying bodies into the forest. "Pippin!" Merry tried to whisper, but Peregrin's free wrists caught him off guard after the two had been tied up for so long. A whisper probably would not have been heard over the battle cries and screams of the dying, anyway. "How did you get free?"

Pippin said nothing, but drew a small knife from under his shirt. "I stole it from him while I was pretending to be sick," he added after sawing at his cousin's bonds, pointing his thumb toward the dead orc lying on the still-raging battlefield. "Actually I was sick, but I'm feeling much better now that I don't have to smell Grishank's hairy armpit." A sly grin, tempered by the horrors he had experienced, flickered briefly over Peregrin's face, and then the youngest member of the broken fellowship appeared as he ever had, happy-go-lucky and slightly clueless. From his cousin's expression, Merry might expect the rest of the company to appear from the trees: Frodo worried to half to death over this latest prank, Samwise spouting his gaffer's words of wisdom, Legolas and Gimli arguing merrily over the proper way to feed a pair of hobbits while Strider slipped them fruit from his pack with a rough smile, Chev'yahna fussing over their scrapes and bruises; Merry could even see Boromir and Gandalf for a minute in his mind's eye, glad to see that they had not laid down their lives in vain. "Do you have any food Merry? I'm hungry."

Shaking a developing tear from his face with a short nod, Merry passed him the crumpled remains of a loaf of lembas, still more or less wrapped in its leaf. After they ate, the two hobbits forged on, under the watchful unseen eyes of Fangorn Forest. 

* * *

Orcish guide -

Butharubat- sod [someone]  
Flagit- foul  
Lulgijak- sissy  
Pargijakun- bloodstained; bloody  
Zangruiuk- she-elf 


	25. Lost Causes

A/N: Newsflash: these characters belong to Tolkien. Surprising, ain't it? This chapter contains strong use of language, a lot of Wargish, that is. Translations are at the bottom of the page, and also on my profile. And as a bit of shamless advertising, the "incident" Tasana refers to can be found in full in the story "Agh Gashuu-ishi: And Into the Fire" on my profile.

* * *

"Ye gods, 'Naki! Stop acting like a squirrel-bitten pup and come here," Tasana gestured exasperatedly from where she sat by the smoky fire, but the old black Warg still refused to approach her, bristling uneasily at the heat of the flames.

"You are mad, Chev'yahna. I do not know why I consented to allow a rabid zwiero to join my pack. I realize I was suffering from deep wounds at the time, but zwiero multiply like rats and bring strange customs to the packs," Gonaki continued to mutter, watching in horror as the woods woman picked through a pack mate's fur with a hot, damp stick from the fire.

"There's one," the healer murmured, touching her hickory stick to a bug. As the parasite squirmed under the heat, causing the watching alpha to writhe in sympathy, Tasana removed it from the wolf's back and threw it in the fire, where the unlucky invertebrate expired with a crackle. "Complain about Rak and his element as you will, Sekrahc, but fire is as necessary to furthering culture as ice."

"The Wargs have done with a minimum of fire for hundreds of years, Chev'yahna. I see no reason to fly in the face of history," Gonaki replied, flicking his ears irritably. "What does a zwiero know of Wargish gods anyway?" He shook himself cantankerously, biting at the work of another bloodsucker.

"When the four are balanced, the packs shall live in harmony once more," The woman quoted one of Mithilira's favorite religious sayings. Both the old lady Warg seeress and Sekrahc Sahnchanc had equated Tasana with odd prophecies of a being called the Balancer, the one who would bring peace between the Wargs and their onetime friends and companions, the elves. The woods woman had always laughed off such comparisons, as had Gonaki. Even Mithilira only spoke of such things in jest, now.

And yet, as Tasana let Roliran go with one final itch along his back, she recalled that a very tiny level, with the help of the fellowship, she had done just that. The beta, aloof as he was amongst even the rest of the pack at times, had formed enough of a friendship with Legolas that he wished he had convinced the archer to come back to the garm with him, instead of heading further into danger. Gaundalan had still not returned home, opting instead to stay with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli on their journey. It worried the yearling's parents to no end, but Tasana was glad to know that there yet remained a member of the pack with her brother and their friends. It gave her more hope of uniting someday with the rest of the group.

"To T'sheckna with the balance. I am not coming over there." Gonaki was revealing his teeth, but Tasana need not worry yet, she knew it to be merely a nervous habit rather than a true sign of anger. The two of them had had this same argument every spring for the past twelve years, shortly before the pups were born.

"Fire's not so bad, Gonaki." Seeing that religious appeals were not getting her anywhere, the healer abruptly switched tactics. "You probably wouldn't be here to whine and complain today if I hadn't been able to boil my herbs with it. Now, come here and let me check you for ticks. You don't want your pups to get them now, do you?" With a rather theatric sigh, the alpha resigned himself to the inevitable and approached the kneeling woman and her blaze.

In this old struggle to petition the black Warg's pride while skirting all mention of his disastrous early affair with flames – a tale Gonaki would never tell, but his brother had spoken often of it enough to any being that would listen - Tasana could forget all grave affairs of men, hobbits, and Wargs, if only for a moment. In this minute, her frenzied ride to Rivendell with Mithilira could blend with any other run; and the woods woman's time with Boromir a vague dream that was in parts fantasy, in other parts nightmare.

Yet these sensations of normalcy passed quickly. The healer had only to turn to the other side of the fire in order to remember how much larger her world beyond pack boundaries had become, where the man she loved impatiently fiddled with his blanket as if he could heal his wounds instantaneously if only he put enough willpower into doing so. Her life had expanded: it was bigger, richer, much more dangerous, and yet ultimately more satisfying. There were questions about her expanding role that bothered Tasana, but she doubted she would ever be answer all of them, even if she were granted the lifetime of an elf and the wisdom of the wizards. Many such questions centered upon Boromir and their budding love. There was no denying her feelings now, Tasana knew. The woods woman still felt a sense of incredulity every time she saw the Steward's heir smile at her, reach for her hand. To wake up next to Boromir- the heartwarming thought of that alone gave Chev'yahna hope for the futures of her brother and their friends on their separate quests, and reassured her more than any vision or seer sense that the companions would meet again. Even if that day should prove to be the one that the T'seer should call her name and speed her along a Warg friend's final journey; wherever her final destination might be, Tasana would go there willingly, given a last chance to speak frankly with Aragorn and Frodo, share a final joke with Legolas and Gimli, to see Merry and Pippin happy and carefree, and to put Sam and the Wargs at ease with one another.

But more than any of that, Tasana would not be at peace without figuring out what she must do about Boromir. It was a step in the right direction, certainly, that they had admitted their love for one another, but the healer still had reservations concerning the most logical next step. Chev'yahna feared the commitment of marriage, even though she had few compunctions concerning sleeping with him. Mating was natural to the woman of the wolves; a Warg pair needed no other ceremony to bind a couple together. Marriage, on the other hand, was a ceremony of the free folk that Tasana subconsciously feared would tear her from her wild family, the people who had been her truest companions since her mother had died. The healer wanted to be a part of this larger world that her time amongst the fellowship had helped her discover, but an impassible rift betwixt the woods woman and her Wargs was too high a cost for her to bear.

"Yents!" Gonaki suddenly yelped, his ears flattening and tail tucking between his legs as fast as those of a startled yearling. "That was my skin you burnt, Chev'yahna-Ana, not some tick!" he growled, and Tasana bobbed her head below his indignant expression and licked her lips in consternation, embarrassed that her thoughts had distracted her from the business at hand. "You'd do your best to keep your mind on that brand of yours, zwiero, lest you wish me to remove your means of manipulating such weapons." The Warg affected a righteous anger, but Tasana knew his blustering was designed to hide his fear of fire and gruff sympathy for the two-legged member of his pack.

"Aye, Sekrahc," Chev'yahna responded demurely. The fellowship had indeed opened up a new world for Tasana Rivermerchant, but for too long she had forgotten what lay at the heart of that world: the Wargs. Even if she could prove herself strong enough to step into the roles Aragorn and Boromir had encouraged her to, Chev'yahna still could not do so if it meant abandoning her four-legged family. If fate conspired to set Tasana amongst the nobility of the White City, the woods woman hoped the Steward did not mind dogs.

After she finished picking through Gonaki's fur, the gigantic black wolf sulked off huffing and sneezing towards the nearest body of water, complaining with a grandiose shake of his coarse ruff that the scent of smoke irritated his nostrils. This left the woman to tend to her other anxious ward, a simpler agenda in theory, but a much more difficult task in actual application. "Boromir," she said gently, taking his uneasily grasping hands in her own, "You know you'll heal faster if you get some rest."

"I'm lying down, aren't I?" He gestured openly. As a seasoned warrior, veteran of the fall of Osgiliath and more orc scrimmages than Tasana could hope to count, Boromir had seen his share of battlefield injuries, but that did not give him any more patience for waiting and healing. The soldier, known for his pride in his strength as well as for his valor and leadership, saw resting for long periods while other men were out and fighting to be a sign of weakness.

"That you are, but you may as well be pacing with the way you fidget so." The healer could not help but smile, despite her attempts at a grave voice. "Close your eyes, beloved, and get some sleep. You won't worry so much when you're not so tired."

"I think the stitches are ready to come out, Tasana," Boromir said brightly, welcoming her kiss but refusing to follow her advice. "They're beginning to itch."

The healer sighed with defeat, and then resumed her gently ironic smile. "It's been four days, now, I suppose. Stop worming like a little boy who's gotten in trouble, and I'll pull them loose. Deal?" She gave his wrist a gentle squeeze, and he returned it, placing his right arm over her elbow.

"Deal," Boromir laughed ruefully, and then pulled her close. "We still have a certain wound to manly pride to heal as well, my Chev'yahna," he added, kissing her ear softly.

"You need sleep more than you need that, Boromir," Tasana pushed him down with another kiss before opening his shirt to check how he fared. Still holding her loosely, Boromir sat up slightly as she removed the bandages. Straddling his lower body, the woods woman examined her lover's wounds. Although he flinched at her light touch along his bare, half-healed ribs, his arrow wounds were well scarred over and beginning to turn white. His stitches could indeed come out, but it would require a gentle hand so as not to disturb his knitting bones. "Let me fix you some tea before I start, dear."

"The last time you fixed me 'tea,' Tasana, I was asleep for nearly two days. I'm a fully-grown man, lover, I can take a bit of pain," Boromir responded cynically. Although he enjoyed her pampering on one level, even required it; long years as a bachelor warrior made him habitually resent the need for repose.

"I know you can, but there is no sense in pushing your limits when the rest does you good anyway." Tasana had kept a small pot of mixed herbs ready to boil since he had reawakened from his previous sleeping draught, knowing that between his guilty conscience and painful wounds, the warrior could not sleep easily without them. There would come a time for Boromir to think about what he had done, a time for him to speak of his shame and work through it, but that time was not when he needed rest to heal the body. After the troubled, proud lord was once again sound of frame; his lover was willing to help him down the long, twisting road back to mental health. Until then, Tasana would let him take on one challenge at a time.

"You must insist upon this?" Breathing in the aromatic scent of the boiling herbs, Boromir reached to caress her as the sweet smell of Kingsfoil infused his weary, worn frame with soothing sluggishness.

"It will heal you much faster than restless fidgeting," the healer nodded, passing him the warm, pungent brew.

Boromir suddenly caught her wrist as she presented the draught, a childishly frightened expression breaking through his warrior's bravado. "Will you be here when I awake, Tasana?" he asked her seriously, an undertone of trepidation lying beneath his gravity.

"Aye, my darling," she replied softly, gently breaking his worried grip. "There is nowhere else I'd rather be." Still afraid of his own weakness, but willing to trust himself in the hands of the healer, Boromir shakily took the proffered cup and drained it with a silent salute to his lady. His tired eyes lingered upon her, as if she were his last anchor of routine and normalcy in a world that had become blurry with madness.

Tasana recognized the expression, for she had worn it often enough while attending to her wounded lover. For too long she had been separated from her pack, alone amongst strangers. True, she had met new friends; even family she had never expected to find. And yet it was because of Boromir that she had been willing to come on this journey, and Boromir who had first started to put her at ease with the rest of the company, even before her brother. The comforting words the healer had spoken were not just empty niceties, but truly heartfelt.

The only thing Chev'yahna truly wished she could change was the status of the rest of the fellowship. Let come what may, the woods woman could face it all with her pack and her friends united against the Black Tower; and yet there was very little she could do for them. With the help of Gonaki and Valenska, Aragorn and his companions had been forewarned of the trap they had been walking into, if they had understood their warning. Valenska had told the rest of the pack that she had lacked the words to truly make the Dunedain see the threat of the treachery of Isengard. This was becoming too typical of Tasana's time with the fellowship: she recognized the danger of their perils, but there was little or nothing she could do to prevent it by herself. She needed her friends to do their part to help her in order to help them.

For the first time in her lonely life, the aloof woods woman was beginning to truly appreciate the impact of her companions, and most of them had left her. Her self-mocking laughter at this thought caused Boromir to stir in his herb-induced half-doze, and Tasana kissed his heavy eyelids closed. Speaking partially to her drowsy patient, partially to herself, Chev'yahna quietly announced, "I have found my purpose here, within the forest, in the company of Wargs and my lord of my heart. Here is my strength, Boromir: the support of your own."

"I have no strength," he muttered sleepily with inner self-hatred that the warrior had attempted to mask under playful, gruff impatience with his slowly healing wounds inadvertently bared to the world.

"You have me," Tasana replied sharply, but she knew not if he had heard her in the depths of sleep. The healer sat at his side for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his scarred chest. The stitches would come out that day, but a single thought would return to plague Chev'yahna: _How did one repair a torn mind?

* * *

_

Aragorn yawned and rubbed the sleep from his heavy eyes. The three hunters would have to stop sooner than he had first reckoned; the ranger was falling asleep on his own two feet, dreaming of riding once more. _I could have almost sworn I heard a Warg howl just now_, he thought sardonically.

Gimli stumbled tiredly after his friends; methodically putting one heavily booted foot in front of the other with prodigious effort. Suddenly, the dwarf stopped, raising an unsteady hand to ward off his companions' questions, his head snapping to attention at a speed the Dunedain had not thought possible, given Gimli's heavy helmet and thick beard that seemed thoroughly tangled in his axe. The application of this instrument of war in the place of a walking stick often appeared to be the only thing that prevented its bearer from falling down with exhaustion where he stood. "What was that?" he asked, straining to listen to some now inaudible phantom.

"What was what?" Strider asked, stooping next to the dwarf in order to rest his long legs and try to survey the plains from Gimli's point of view.

Legolas made a hushing gesture of his own. "Wargs," he said uneasily. "And they sound none too pleased about something."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Gimli tightened his grip upon his axe. "For all we know, Chev'yahna and Boromir may be in trouble there. Just because I heard them first is no reason for you to stall here, Master Elf."

"How was I supposed to hear anything above your snores, Gimli?" Legolas shot back. "I simply say we should be cautious; there is no reason to run headlong into a trap." Pulling his hunting bow from his back, there was a gleam in the elf's eyes that promised an exacting vengeance upon any who would cause trouble for his companions, despite the archer's downplayed words of discretion. Strider and Gimli felt no differently, save that the redheaded dwarf and the woods woman's brother were less likely to show restraint than their elder companion. Not knowing what to expect, the three hunters ran swiftly, silently, and as low to the ground as they could force their tired bodies in the sea of plains grasses.

The sight that greeted them was not uncommon to even the youngest child of the Rohan; nevertheless it seemed a twisted form of justice to these three warriors who had placed their trust in Mithilira and her pack members. A ragged line of blonde horsemen rode down upon a pack of gigantic wolves, attempting to impale the creatures upon cruelly pointed spears and firing arrow after arrow into their throats from short bows designed for mounted archers. The Wargs, for their part, had evened the score. Horses screamed as their jugular veins were ripped open to fountain blood. Pieces of human corpses intermingled with those of four legged beasts. Strider paled slightly at the sight of the carnage, and even Legolas swallowed roughly, hardened veterans that they were.

"Hold!" Aragorn cried, springing from the long grass to knock a large black and silver Warg from its collision course with a Rohan steed. "By Eru and Elbereth, hold!" Standing ramrod straight and refusing to yield even a hair's breath left or right to either steel-shod warhorse or slavering Warg, the Dunedain held out his hands in the gesture his sister had shown him as a command to stop a pack member in its tracks. The Rohirrim rider struggled to comply, his stallion's hooves skittering for purchase. The wolf, however, showed no sign of even attempting to slow, leaping over the six foot six tall Dunedain without pause to take stock of its situation or apparent sign of distress. Landing with the grace of a cat, the gray-faced Warg with its distinctive black lines about its neck that merged into an ebony cloak along its shoulders and back, a mantle that would be the envy of any finely dressed king, raised its lips in a throaty growl.

"Pup of Nyrasgarm, troch!" Strider admonished, praying that his pronunciation was close enough. "Yahn T'ahn kursh T'sheckna." This was a little easier; Tasana had used those terms fairly often. At least Aragorn's voice did not sound quite as shaky or unreasonably harsh.

"What kind of sorcerer are you, that you can speak their foul tongue?" the rider asked unbelievingly, balancing his javelin in his stirrup. The Warg refused to be pacified, and began to circle the strange ranger with its hackles raised. Aragorn repeated the blessing, slowly lowering his palms, facing the wolf with his head held high.

From his hiding place in the brush, Legolas swore and fitted an arrow to his bowstring, glaring at his nearest companion before taking his gaze back to the debacle before them. "He should have waited. Why didn't you hold him back?" the archer whispered grumpily as he sighted the irate beast. Gimli grunted gruffly in reply, tired and unwilling to take a side in this argument.

"You won't tame that one, no matter how good you are," the horseman continued, moving his steed behind the ranger once more. "He reports straight to the white wizard, and has no other master. No one can find a hole in that wolf's armor." Much of the rest of the fighting had stopped, as enemies paused to consider this dark man who could call upon both of their tongues. The black-caped Warg suddenly flowed from its aggressive, superior stance, designed by nature and purpose to be intimidating, into a crouch. This time it did not intend to jump over the human.

"Shecking zwiero," it growled. Once more its spring was aborted in midair: this time by an arrow speeding from a hunter's bow. The force of the blow sent the dark creature tumbling. It should have penetrated completely through its jugular. The wolf should not have been able to stand back up again. It should not have shaken off the arrow from Legolas's bow as easily as a briar in its fur. Nevertheless, that point was enough to cause the Warg to howl and call its pack mates away from the battle. The riders of Rohan watched as their foes turned tail and ran south, towards Isengard.

There was no celebration amongst the survivors, for they had lost too many companions in their undeclared war. Some of the warriors left to gather their dead and those of the enemy, while the rest responded to their captain's whistle and surrounded the Dunedain. "You seem full of surprises, sirrah, but you have not yet told me your name," the horseman whom Aragorn had saved from the eerie Warg spoke.

"To the north, most folk know me as Strider, but my given name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," the ranger replied. "I travel with a pair of companions, seeking two friends who were lost to us to orcs at Amon Hen." The Dunedain gestured into the brush, signaling Legolas and Gimli to approach him.

"On foot? Or do you ride more of these wild beasts?" The blonde captain gestured towards a remaining Warg corpse with his lance.

"My sister has, well, tamed one of the southern packs, you might say. We rode with them as far as they would take us in two days, and then ran for the next three." Aragorn answered truthfully. He did not know why the Rohan and wolves had been fighting, save an old racial hatred that had been ingrained into their blood, but something told him that this warrior could prove a friend if his suspicion could be eased.

"Come on, you two," the ranger hissed toward his hidden traveling companions. Legolas came out stiffly, his bow stringed and ready to shoot, but currently the archer kept his weapon pointed towards the ground, his only concession to his friend's summons. Gimli looked as if he had just been reawakened from a catnap, and was not happy about it.

"An elf, a dwarf, and a Dunedain, and all dressed in the style of the folk of Lothlorien. Here is an odd trio of hunters, indeed. And you say you traveled all the way here from Amon Hen in five days. Strider does not suit you; you would better be named Wingfoot, Master Aragorn," the Rohan considered them with mild puzzlement. "But that does not settle the question of the names of your friends or your quarry. I have never before seen a man nor dwarf dressed in Lothlorien cloaks. What manner of folk are you that you consort with wolves and the witch of the wood?"

"I will give you my name, if you give us yours. Mind your tongue though, horseman, when you speak of Lady Galadriel," Gimli growled. "Or I shall be forced to remove it with my axe." Legolas flashed his friend an unreadable look of mixed gratitude and annoyance at the dwarf's spirited defense of his kinswoman.

"A dwarf who shall defend an elf is very unusual indeed. Even more so, knowing the treacherous nature of the lady's forest and spirit." The horse captain narrowed his eyes at Gimli's axe.

"Treacherous?" Gimli spat the word with unbelieving ire. "There is no treachery in Lothlorien, save what you bring into it in your distrustful heart. Lady Galadriel is the fairest and wisest lady of any race to have walked Middle-Earth."

"So you say, Master Dwarf, although I would be willing to contest this," The rider raised a hand to hold back an edgy companion, although there was still a hint of stone and battle-fire in his dark eyes. "I am Eomer, a captain of the Mark and nephew of King Theoden of Rohan. Who are you, admirer of Galadriel, to wander our lands without permission of our lord?"

"Gimli son of Gloin needs no one's permission to seek his friends. I would challenge you to a duel for your slight of the Lady of the Golden Wood, Master Eomer, save I pity you, as you have obviously not laid eyes upon her fair image." At this, he placed his axe firmly in front of him.

"Quite a bold warrior, to challenge me when I am surrounded by my companions," Eomer laughed, opening his arms wide to take in the warriors, still bloodied from their battle with the Wargs. "But surely you must have a second for a duel?"

"Need you ask?" Legolas said softly, raising his drawn bow in one fluid motion. "You would fall before your first stroke was made, should you attack the dwarf."

"Gimli, Legolas, peace!" Aragorn put a restraining hand upon the elf's shoulder. "You must forgive my friends, for they are sorely distracted with worry for the fates of our companions," the ranger spoke. "We seek two hobbits; they were taken prisoner by orcs," the Dunedain continued, and then added at the rider's confused expression, "Halflings, they would appear no more than children to your eyes."

"We may be able to end your worry, friend," Eomer said softly. Although he was naturally suspicious of strangers, and these odd, hostile folk who sprung up from the grass in the middle of a battle and attempted to soothe a rabid enemy were stranger than most, something about the ranger made the Rohirrim instinctively trust him. "Though I fear you will not like the ending. My cousin's command came upon a contingent of orcs, mostly Uruk Hai, last night. All of the orcs were killed, but we found no captives."

"There were no signs of them?" Legolas lowered his bow with a pale blanch coming over his sharp elven features. Gimli muttered incredulously at the slender archer's side.

"You are welcome to poke through the remains if you wish," Eomer gestured to a burnt pyre next to which the Wargish corpses were beginning to mount up. "We lost many men in that battle, including my cousin-" the Rohan captain paused and swallowed, reining in his raw emotions – "But we found no captives."

"I am sorry to hear of your loss, Lord Eomer," Aragorn spoke sincerely, knowing how it pained him to lose a friend, in battle or in peace. The ranger had just been harshly reminded of this lesson when he was forced to leave his sister and Boromir in order to search for the hobbits, which after Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had tracked them for days, had apparently disappeared into thin air. Nevertheless, the ranger had tracked his friends this far; there was no reason to give up now. Approaching the burning grounds with only a bare hint of trepidation he felt at the sight of a scorched Warg skin stretched between two orc-skull-topped lances that marked the boundary of the grim monument to a Rohan victory, the Dunedain poked through the ashes of the enemies' dead. Charred remains of bone and armor had not burned, clumping forlornly like forgotten dreams of hope, but there was nothing indeed in the ashes that could have possibly once been two young hobbits.

Aragorn knew not whether he should be pleased about this. Perhaps the prisoners had been taken away with a side contingent, after all. If so, he had already wasted too much precious time chasing the main body of goblins. Such a group would have had to split off from the main troop before the Wargs had left, though, for the riders of Rohan were notoriously thorough in battle. If their captain had said they had destroyed all the orcs in the area, there would not be a live orc within three days' ride. Thinking of the Wargs, the Dunedain reflexively examined the wolf corpses that had been piled for burning.

Surely Gaundalan had turned home by now… A rider, giving the dark-haired man an uneasy stare, slung a small brown body atop the pile. _Gaundalan was more of a cinnamon color,_ Strider told himself; _he hadn't had that black fleck on his left ear_. The ranger touched the spot as if to reassure himself of the yearling's life. His fingers came away with half-dried blood, leaving a decidedly reddish-brown coat beneath the marking. "By Eru, damn it," Aragorn whispered, rubbing the drying liquid between his fingers. "He was only a pup. Just an overeager pup that wanted to help us find our friends." Turning towards the horsemen, the ranger flogged his exhausted mind for the little he had heard of Wargish death rites. Something about Nyrasgarm and T'Sheckna, the basic desire to be useful in death as well as in life, and there was something to do with crows or ravens as well. "Lord Eomer, you have been kind to me and my friends, despite our sudden appearance, but I must ask one more boon of you."

"And what would that be, Master Aragorn?" The blonde captain paused from his directives to his men and turned curiously towards the Dunedain who stroked the dead body of a Warg reverently.

"Don't burn this one," Strider replied, his voice too soft and sorrowful for it to be a true mandate, but too full of iron to be merely a pleading statement of grieving. "Leave the bodies; and let the Wargs know that we can honor the pack's needs, if they will honor ours."

"Aye, Lord." Eomer recognized that tone, from the days before his uncle had stopped caring about his lands, his people, even his kin. That was the inflection of a king in the dawning stages of personal mourning. Theoden had once shown such emotion when his sister, Eomer's mother, had died. Perhaps someday the old king would wake up enough from this daze to feel the same for the death of his son. Eomer knew not what a young wolf could do to merit such grief, but he recognized signs of a true leader when he saw them.

"You have been a true friend, Lord Eomer," Aragorn saluted him with his blade. "If you ever require the aid of the house of Isildur, you need only but ask."

"I would only request that you would help us to settle our Warg problem, by one method or another," the rider saluted in return. "Our king refuses to recognize the threat of the orcs of Isengard. The wolf packs, which have avoided us until recently, have started foraying into our herds. I lead my men against the invaders, with or without our king's permission, but we cannot be everywhere at once."

"King Theoden will not recognize the threat of orcs?" Legolas spoke up, his natural scorn of humans revealing itself before the hint of offense could register with the tired elf.

"He does not recognize friend from foe any longer," the captain answered bitterly. "Or family, for that matter," Eomer added quietly. Letting the dismal clouds of his family life slide away, the horseman suddenly gave a high, piercing whistle. A pair of saddled but unmounted horses approached at this call without any human accompaniment. "They may not have the stamina of Wargs, but the mounts of the Rohirrim Mark come fairly close. May they bear you to better fortune than their last masters, Aragorn son of Arathorn of House Isildur." Eomer patted a whipcord lean horse upon its warm gray muzzle. Like his own stallion, both the gray and the black were tall and skinny, but obviously capable of carrying a great amount of weight.

Strider and Legolas spoke their thanks, but Gimli looked at the horse he was supposed to share with Legolas with frank misgiving. "At least the Wargs are sentient enough to fear Chev'yahna's wrath," the dwarf muttered, keeping his weapon between himself and the gray steed. "These creatures are just barely intelligent enough to plot how to make my life miserable. The dumb beasts are much too tall for me. Wirsankor really is much shorter, and I can barely get atop him. Any sane dwarf would stick to his own two feet, rather than these wild animals," he continued, edging up to the front of the horse as if it were the first sentry of the Black Tower. "Don't touch it!" Gimli shouted fearfully at Legolas as the elf reached to stroke the horse's muzzle. At the archer's sardonic expression, he added apologetically, "Well, don't blame me if that thing takes your arm off. They can give you a nasty bite."

"So says the rider of a Warg," Eomer laughed. "Arod is actually quite gentle."

"I don't see you riding him," Gimli replied insolently, as if daring the man to mock the dwarf's phobia.

"He's fine, Gimli," Legolas reassured his friend. "Here, I'll show you." Bending down, the elf lifted the dapple-gray's white-socked front leg. The steed complied without comment to this touch; simply letting its hoof fall back into position once the elf's thin fingers had been removed. "You try it now," Legolas patted the dwarf's blocky shoulder as Gimli crouched uneasily next to him.

"No horse ever made an ass out of this dwarf," he muttered into his beard, reaching almost against his will for the hoof. Before he had seized its leg, however, Gimli found himself boosted up onto the gelding's neck, Legolas swinging up easily behind his surprised partner.

"You hardly need a horse to accomplish that," the archer gibed him playfully. "But while we've been getting you acclimated to your new mount, it appears our Strider has sniffed out our trail."

While watching his friends take on the challenge of getting Gimli upon a horse, Aragorn had noticed flattened patches in the nearby grass that were caused neither by the stamping of animals nor a battlefield scuffle. At first the Dunedain had thought the dwarf had fallen off to cause such trampling, but despite his dire predictions of animal treachery, the uneasy rider was kept firmly in the saddle by a two-handed death grip upon his saddle horn and the elf's guiding arms as Legolas reached about his passenger for their mount's reins.

There were two such flattened areas, the ranger observed upon a closer look, both similar in age, formed last night, perhaps, judging from the bent and straightening grass stalks. Both were too small to have been formed by an orc, or even a grown dwarf, for that matter, although it appeared that there had been at least one goblin in the area. There were no hobbit-sized footprints nearby, but by following the orc tracks Strider stumbled upon a second clue: a scrap of a silver Lothlorien belt, thrown as if it had been ripped from its owner by a stray weapon that had come far too close for the wearer's liking. Not far from the belt was something that brought a relieved smile to the ranger's face: hobbit tracks, and a small piece of fuzz from one of their furry feet caught in a broken grass stalk. Following the trail into the shade of the nearby forest, Aragorn discovered a golden leaf with the telltale crumbs of Lembas still within it. "It can't be Merry and Pippin," he laughed, emblazoning the leaf. "They would hardly be so kind as to leave us a speck of food."

"Where did you find that?" Eomer asked the ranger nervously.

"On the edge of the forest." The Dunedain pointed to the old, overgrown trees behind him.

"If you must continue to search for your friends, I suppose you must." The captain exchanged uneasy glances with his men. "But be forewarned, the forests surrounding Rohan are not as benign as the North Woods. You have had more luck than anyone else that I have ever met, that you survived and prospered from your journey into Lothlorien, but there is no witch to tame the trees of Fangorn. They are ancient beyond reckoning, and they have memories of men. They know of blade and fire, and hate such things with a vengeance. There are creatures amongst those trees that can lead them in rending and tearing, and it is said that Saruman, the corrupted wizard, walks within Fangorn's edges with his invincible Wargs. I would not dare such a journey."

"But as you say, we must find our friends," Legolas rejoined, sitting proudly in the saddle despite the Rohirrim's knowing, fearful glances. "Farewell, Lord Eomer, and we shall meet you later in order to return the horses." He turned toward the trees as Strider mounted the black Eomer held for him.

"Farewell," Eomer replied softly. "Although I doubt we'll meet again."

* * *

Wargish Glossary:

Ana: troublesome, a play on the elvish anna-, "gift"

Chev'yahna: healer, name given to Tasana by the Wargs

Ice: reference to Mestevar, Wargish god of intellect and winter

Garm: den, home

Nyrasgarm: Wargish concept of heaven, lit. Eastern Home

Rak: Wargish god of fire

Sekrahc: alpha male

Sheck (v): to murder, often used as a curse word

T'seer: Blessed Ravens, associated with Nyrasgarm

T'sheckna: lit. Murderess, Wargish goddess of death; hell

Troch: peace

Yahn T'ahn kursh T'sheckna: Wargish blessing, no exact translation, roughly, "good shall conquer evil"

Zwiero: bipedal, ie, human

Agh Gaashu-ishi: Orcish for, you guessed it: And Into the Fire


	26. Unknown Quantities

A/N: Another Hobbit chapter here, introducing a pair of fan favorites. I switch around between the groups, like in the beginning, until we get them back together, if they get back together... I own nada.

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Deep within the shady forest with its huddled, brooding trees that the horsemen of Rohan so feared, a pair of hobbits walked without regard to the long, tortured memories of the life surrounding them. Merry and Pippin were so relieved at their fortuitous escape that they barely gave their immediate surroundings any thought, save for the younger hobbit's unconscious scans of the undergrowth for anything that might be construed as food. "No mushrooms, no berries - I haven't seen so much as even a wilted little crabapple since we walked in here," Peregrine muttered under his breath, looking into the thick branches that blocked his view of the sky as if those twisted limbs hid an answer to his belly's nagging gurgle.

"Always thinking with your stomach, Pip," Merry laughed, giving his cousin a light tap in the abdomen. "There's plenty of moss and lichen." The elder hobbit plucked a low hanging tendril of the former and passed it under his nose, as if savoring its aroma before dangling the unappetizing growth before his companion.

"Ugh." Pippin made a disgusted face, turning slightly green when he smelled the rotting, bone-colored plant material. "There's not much else here, though. No animals. No flowers. I haven't even heard any birds. Just big trees, rocks, and moss."

Tossing the offending "food" into the carpet of old leaves; Merry was inclined to agree with him. The woods would seem rather empty, compared to more lush glades like Lothlorien, if it were not for the staggering maze of gnarled, moss-covered trees that cast the forest floor into perpetual gloom. Merriadoc began to fear that he and his cousin had escaped sure death in the hands of the orcs only to find sure death by starvation in these thick woods. Although Merry thought that it had been starved into submission during the long, arduous march with the orcs, his stomach began to complain against this train of thought.

"You know, you're right. And I am getting a little hungry. Why don't we head for that big cliff over there? It looks a bit sunnier than the rest of this forest. Maybe we'll find a berry bush or something," he said, pointing out a sheer, stony hill where a meager wisp of pale sunlight fought its way through the tangled braches.

"We've got a little bit of lembas left," Pippin noted with a hint of his normal optimistic good humor returning. "We could have a picnic, as if we were camping out on the edge of the old forest, just like we did when we were boys." The flicker of wisdom and lost innocence Merry had noted during their escape from the Uruk Hai came once more over his cousin's face, and Meriadoc paused for a moment in mourning for those spirited, jovial youngsters. They had both seen too much to ever be "just like when they were boys" again. Dear old Peregrine was trying to keep up appearances, though, just to keep up their badly bruised spirits. "Come on, lazy legs, I'll race you to the top," he laughed, and Merry followed after.

It was indeed much brighter as the young hobbits scampered up the rocky, barren hillside, which brightened their hearts, even if the ledge offered neither berries nor other type of refreshment to soothe their complaining stomachs. This steep lookout seemed even more barren than the rest of the forest, with no life making itself evident above the lowest ledge save for a gnarled old tree at the summit: tall, thin, and bearded with a long tail of moss. Merry did not recognize its type, for the leaves were tattered and drooping, perhaps an oak or a very old elm, but he never had seen an oak with bark quite so scarred and knotty as that. But then, of course, Merry would have been the first to admit he knew very little of trees. Sam was the one who spent all his time in a garden; the young Brandybuck only went into the wild clutches of nature in order to procure frogs or other slimy, scaly, and many-legged horrors for his supply of pranks.

Pippin was the first to reach the top of the cliff, tapping the tree before his cousin. From the mischievous smile on his younger cousin's face, Merry expected to never hear the end of Pip's bragging, but then to the two hobbits' mutual and complete surprise, the tree tapped them back.

It picked them up in a pair of spreading branches, blinked large yellow eyes that reminded Merry of a gigantic owl, and then looked straight at them as if they were a pair of interestingly shaped bugs. To be more precise: bugs it was considering pinning to a tree to add to a collection. Then, quite unmistakably, the tree spoke. "Hurrrum..." it said in a deep, whispering, ponderous voice. "What have we here? What has disturbed my rest? We must not be hasty now... I have heard word of orcs, and of humans, several of such creatures in my forest, but these do not appear to be the former or the latter. Are they some type of orcish spy? Those tree-cutting, axe-wielding, flame-burning, branch-breaking orcs have been in my forest, but I must not be hasty. What sort of creatures could these be? Too small and hairy for a human, but not enough for a badger..."

"I'm a Took, sir, Peregrine Took. My cousin Merriadoc Brandybuck and I are hobbits, although normally folks call me Pippin, or just Pip, and him Merry." As usual, Pippin was the first to find his tongue. Whether or not he had managed to do so by sticking his foot into his mouth in front of a very strong tree that was holding them both between its fingerlike branches was beyond Merry's current knowledge. "I've never seen a talking tree before, sir, are you the only one who can? Merry and I did meet a tree that tried to eat us once, but that's a whole different story."

"Hurrum, hobbits, I have never heard of hobbits before. They are not spoken of in the old poems, the lists of names of all the creatures." The owl eyed tree mumbled to itself. "Leaf and lichen, root and twig, how strange and hasty these are. Giving away their proper names with no thought or word of having the kindness returned. How do they know that I will be careful with them? There are folk in this forest that are kind to hasty strangers and those who are not, you know. But curious, one cannot fault them for that. Hurrum, hroom, now, how to answer the small hasty folk?" the being pondered. "I am called Fangorn by the elves, or Treebeard, in your tongue, if you prefer. My real name would take much too long to say, for names tell stories in my language, and my story is a long one, indeed. But I am no talking tree as much as a shepherd of trees, the eldest of my people. We ents are not a prodigious species, never have been, since we are long-lived, and there have been no new ents since the entwives were lost to us. But how is it that you came to be forgotten by the other free folk?"

Merry shrugged and decided to speak up. The ent creature seemed as odd to Meriadoc as he must to it, but the slow thinking, slow moving old Treebeard made him think of one of his numerous great-uncles, who was willing to humor the little ones with a story of his past, but was quickly worn out by observing wild childish antics. "Many small creatures tend to be forgotten, none more so than hobbits, for our folk generally wish to be left alone in their hobbit-holes."

"That sounds like a very proper wish, indeed." Fangorn gently placed the hobbits upon his gnarled, woody shoulders. From this new vantage point, Merry could see that even if the ent only moved slowly, his long strides had carried his small passengers quite a distance from the hill as they talked.

"Now where are we going?" Merry questioned himself, not even certain he had said it aloud until the tree-shepherd responded. Pippin watched the rate of their progress avidly, counting the giant's long strides as the ent glided along the forest, each pace starting from his long root-like toes and then continuing through his stiff, tree-trunk legs. Merry imagined the walk might look very comical indeed, if any could keep pace with Treebeard to watch.

"We are headed for one of my homes, deep within the forest. I like to hear of news from the outside world, but not too quickly, not too hastily. I cannot bend to sit, but I imagine you young hobbits may wish to rest," Fangorn replied to Merry's query. "Root and twig, but I am becoming somewhat hasty in my ancient years, even as my oldest friends get slower and slower, becoming more like the trees they guard. I mean you no harm, my hasty young hobbits; we will be quite safe from orc attacks where we are headed, and I would prefer not to be interrupted."

"How far is it to your home?" Pippin asked, losing count of the ent's great strides.

"I suppose it would be considered far by your reckoning," Treebeard replied after a few more "hurrums." "It is very deep in the forest, on the side of another – what do your folk call them again? Oh, yes, hills – hill, just on the edge of the mountains. Why do you ask?"

"Pippin and I just don't have very many supplies," Merry replied. "We only have a little bit of food, although I suppose it will stretch to almost five days, as long as we've got water." He bit his lip as he dug through his pockets for lembas crumbs.

"And we don't have any sleeping rolls nor blankets, neither," Peregrine added helpfully.

"Do not worry too much about those things, young hobbits," Fangorn's rumbling voice contained the hint of laughter. "My home has very nice places to sleep, and I have a potion that is exceptionally good for growing things: hroom, yes, I believe my entdraught will keep you green and growing for quite some time."

"But that doesn't settle the matter of the journey along the way," Merry argued.

"Our journey is nearly at an end, young Merry," the ent chided him, and indeed, Treebeard and his hasty passengers were fast approaching a garden, in which the bounties of the forest were gathered in a riotous celebration of life, contrasting pleasantly with the grim, gnarled trees that made up the rest of Fangorn Forest. "Simply because I am deliberate in my thoughts does not mean that I am slow to action once my mind is set." The tree-shepherd who shared his name with his forest laughed, and then a reminiscent expression came over his craggy wooden visage. "This garden once belonged to Fimbrethil, one of the most beauteous ent-maidens it has ever been my pleasure to meet. She and I used to take long walks in this forest when the world was young. But that was before she and the other entwives were lost to us."

"How did they die?" Even Merry, who admitted to himself that he was still quite young and hasty, flinched at his cousin's forthright phrasing of his question.

"I did not say that the entwives were dead; simply that they were lost to us," Treebeard corrected. His deep voice, which reminded Meriadoc of whispering leaves, now took on tones of thunder, but quickly softened. "We ents care for the trees and the wild things, but the entwives have always preferred order amongst their charges. They were the first to grow farms and gardens, and taught the other races, as well. On their last journey, for the ent-wives were ever wandering about the lands of the free peoples, they disappeared and were never heard from again. I believe they were headed north, but how far and for how long I cannot say."

"The Shire's in the north," Merry spoke up as Fangorn's yellow eyes wandered regretfully over the garden and the wild guardian trees surrounding its colorful, neat rows. "Our folk have always been fond of gardens and farms. Perhaps the entwives went somewhere around there," the hobbit attempted to reassure his gigantic new friend. Treebeard smiled slightly, but remained in silent thought.

"Speaking of farms and gardens," Pippin said with a hand upon his belly, "One thing that we love the most about them is the food they give us. There wouldn't happen to be such food here, would there?" he asked hopefully.

"It is yet much too early in the season for this little garden plot to provide you with good things to eat," Treebeard smiled gently at his guests. "The birds and creatures that inhabit this patch of forest will probably have eaten anything that matured too early in here anyhow. But if you will join me in my abode, there is a draught that I have been told outstrips most other forms of nourishment awaiting us. Let us retire, and you can tell me of the events beyond my forest."

Entering a ring of thin, vertical rowans that formed a living wall at the back of the garden, the three entered a large, and to the hobbits' hole-dwelling eyes, most unusual house. The walls were made of living trees, growing close enough together that their branches intertwined to form a solid structure that would be impenetrable to the worst of a rainstorm, and the ceiling constructed of their tightly woven upper boughs. There was no furniture as Merry and Pippin recognized such, but soft piles of leaves and a natural, mossy material made wonderful sitting places for the small travelers as Treebeard gently removed them from his shoulders. With frequent interruptions from one another, Merry and Pippin began to narrate their adventures so far for Treebeard. He appeared to recognize the name of Gandalf – "The only wizard who really ever cared for the trees," as Fangorn sadly referred to him – and wondered why the hobbits spoke of him in the past tense. "You speak as if he were a tale that has come to its end," the ent studied them bemusedly.

"And a sad end it was," Merry replied mournfully. "He fell into darkness while leading us out of Moria." Pippin sniffed and nodded, saluting an unseen memory with his mug of entdraught before polishing off the last half of the container in one sip.

"Wizards are full of clever tricks, young Meriadoc," Fangorn replied with a gentle twinkle in his eyes. "And Mithrandir is more clever than most. I would not be so hasty as to count him out for good yet."

"Gandalf would need more than cleverness to make it out of that fall in one piece," Merry replied. Treebeard did not comment, but nor did he abandon a faint, knowing smile as he sipped deeply from his much larger glass of clear entdraught. "But anyways, after we got out of Moria, we entered Lothlorien. It's a very pretty forest, but the lady who rules there isn't highly thought of by most humans or dwarves. Gimli was ready to jump at every birdcall upon our entry, and I heard that Mistress Chev'yahna had a right row with Lady Galadriel."

"Well, I heard that it was with Boromir, but they seem to have made up pretty well, eh, Merry?" Pippin interrupted with a lewd wink as he elbowed his cousin. "I don't know why some folks don't like Galadriel. She was really nice to us," he continued thoughtfully, leaning his refilled cup against his bulging stomach.

"Are she and young Celeborn still taking care of the trees, then?" Treebeard asked.

"Yes, it's really beautiful in there," Merry replied, trying to fend off the satisfied drowsiness that came with a full stomach after so long on a starvation diet. "All those yellow leaves..." he trailed off.

"Root and twig, I am glad to hear of that small comfort at least," the ent replied. "Now if we could only find a way to make Saruman remember his duty to the forests. Hurroom. You were lucky to encounter such friendly Wargs. The wolves about Isengard have started to not only stop defending their homes from the tree-killing, branch-spoiling, axe-wielding orcs; I have heard tell that they welcome them and help with their destruction. Well, the moot will find a way to settle this."

"Pardon me, but what's a moot, Treebeard?" Merry butted in to the ent's rambles.

"A moot is the great ent council, in which we debate matters of extreme importance to our society. We do not have them often, and decide upon a course of action in an even greater time than the moot takes, but in the morning we go to decide what we should do, if anything, in reaction to the affairs of men, elves, and orcs."

"But I thought that you were on our side," Pippin said, surprised.

"'Our side?' I did not realize that you had already drawn sides," Treebeard's yellow eyes took in the young hobbit owlishly. "If it comes to that, I suppose I am on my own side, and that of the forest. But my side and your side may go along with one another, for a time yet. Tomorrow, we shall see for certain when the ents meet for our moot."

* * *

"I think we've come by this way before," Sam mumbled, scanning the rocky badlands. Given the distinct lack of paths through the barren wastelands of Emyn Muil, where the ground was fissured and mounded sharply at random intervals, as if shaped by the whimsy of a malign, maddened hand out of daggers and blacksmith's detritus, it was highly possible that their battered hairy feet had indeed passed through this crevasse before. A constantly gloomy, overcast sky had prevented Frodo and Sam from using the sun for a guiding compass.

The lack of sunlight also left them chilled to the bone. Frodo missed the warmth of his old home in Bag-End more every day that he trudged through the hilly wasteland that offered no shelter from icy winds. He missed it even more upon drizzly nights with naught but a worn-out sleeping roll, moldering from its exposure to the elements. It still quite often amazed the hobbit to think of how far away Bag-End and the wealth of the Shire was as he took stock of their dwindling supplies. But to keep that home safe, he knew he must continue to turn his feet away from it, down the dreary, dangerous road to Mordor. The extent of their travels and occasional worries about supplies was all Frodo allowed himself to concentrate upon.

Certainly, the two hobbits needed to keep a watch out for mysterious followers, but whenever the Ring Bearer turned his thoughts to such matters, his ears were filled with the shrieks of the Nazgül, his eyes blinded with visions of the burning, lidless eye, and his burden seemed to redouble in its weight. Who would have thought that such a little ring could become so heavy? Frodo was embarrassed to mention such a silly fancy to Sam. Gods knew that his poor friend had taken on enough as it was, without having to comfort Frodo's flighty imagination. He knew that if it got much heavier, Sam would offer to help Frodo carry it. For some reason, this idea sent shivers down Frodo's spine. The older hobbit tried to reassure himself that this was only because he did not want Sam exposed to the temptations he had to live with, but he was beginning to fear that the Ring had finally driven him completely mad, just as it had Gollum and Boromir. Frodo surely could not be any stronger of will than Lady Galadriel, whatever she might say, and even the wise elven lady had nearly fallen under its spell from a single encounter. How could one small hobbit do any better?

At least he was still sane enough to question his sanity, Frodo thought dryly. That would have to be enough. There was nothing else. There was no one else who could take the Ring. This bleak mantra was all that kept him going at times. Yet he could not go on forever like this. Blind wandering had gotten them into Emyn Muil, but to advance past it, they would need some surer method. Frodo and Sam were only a pair of village-dwelling hobbits, when it came down to the quick of things. Sam's botanical knowledge did not extend far past the kitchen garden, and Frodo could not even navigate his way about the library at Bag-End at times, much less determine a path through this endless, featureless maze of rocks.

"I believe you're right, Sam. What do you say we stop here for the evening, instead of going over the same path again?" Frodo yawned. "At least it may appear fresh under a new sun."

"But the sun hasn't set yet, Mister Frodo!" Sam replied, approaching the nearby rocky wall to begin another fruitless ascent. "For that matter, I haven't never even seen it rise since we entered this place, and I haven't been sleeping in late, neither."

"I know. We have been hardy wanderers, for all the darkness along the route, haven't we?" Frodo helped boost the larger hobbit up the cliff before throwing the packs up to him. Larger no longer contained the connotation of fatter, Frodo noted as he reached for Sam's calloused hand at the apex of his own climb. They had both lost weight as their supplies dwindled dangerously low, but they had hardily and uncomplainingly adapted. "Strider would be proud of us," the older hobbit thought to himself.

"He would be, and rightly so," Sam echoed, letting Frodo know that he had unwittingly spoken the last part aloud. The questions and concerns accompanying this statement went gratefully unspoken, but were written plainly upon the younger hobbit's open round face.

"I'm sure they're all right Sam, Aragorn and all the others. He wouldn't let them come to any harm. I just don't want them to have to suffer the effects of the Ring. I don't want you to have to bear its weight." Frodo attempted to explain himself to those large, questioning eyes. Of their own detached will, his fingers crept towards the burden hung around his throat.

"It's getting heavier, ain't it?" Sam's mind did not work quickly, but when it grasped a fact, he fastened upon it like a deranged, starving Warg upon the throat of the last elk in the forest. The younger hobbit stared at Frodo, holding his eyes as tightly as his hand. The Ring bearer stood for a moment in that precarious position at the edge of the cliff, with only one foot and Sam's hand assuring him of safety, the other hairy toes wedged uncertainly in a narrow gap in the cliff wall. Frodo knew his mental situation was no surer than this awkward place in the climb. Mentally, as well as physically, he might be able to make it without the trust and support of his best friend, but given how things had been going so far, he doubted it more and more every day of their journey.

"It is," Frodo replied at last. "Its power is getting stronger. I fear the Ring, Sam, but I fear losing it worse. Sometimes, I don't know if I'll be able to complete this quest. I mean; what if I get there and I can't give it up? I could end up as mad as Isildur or Gollum or Boro-" Frodo swallowed the end of the last name, but it was too late. Sam stared at him levelly; knowing his suspicions about the human had been confirmed.

"So that's why we left them," he said simply, nodding. "I always knew that Boromir was a bad apple and no mistake, Mister Frodo, but I think the others would've liked to know where we were off to. They deserved a little trust. I can understand you wantin' to be a little more secret-like after Boromir came after you, but you can't judge the whole barrel by one bad apple, beggin' your pardon, Mister Frodo, sir."

"There just wasn't time," the older hobbit started, unable to explain the treachery of the Ring and the blind panic he had felt. He wasn't sure he would want to explain his increasing paranoia and the sympathy he was beginning to feel for the man, even if he could. That led to too many questions of power and strength, questions Frodo was not sure he could answer objectively.

"Do you still trust me, Frodo?" Sam asked bluntly, a hint of fear in those honest brown eyes.

"More than I trust myself, Samwise," Frodo squeezed his best friend's hand before they laid out camp for the night.

They fell asleep soon after, not hearing the muted, maddened mutterings from the cliff above them. "Thieves, precious, nasssty little thieveses. They stole it from us, precious, and we wants it back, gollum." Long, spidery fingers propelled the spindly, half-starved form down the cliff wall, large bloodshot yellow eyes narrowed in the moonlight. Those same bony hands reached for Frodo and his hidden burden, ready to choke the life from the sleeping hobbit. Sam snorted in his sleep, and the pale bringer of death and vengeance retreated with as much speed as it had begun its strike. "Mustn't risk it. Too risky, gollum," it intoned in a raspy whisper that ended in a muffled cough. The yellow eyes lingered longingly upon Frodo's throat. "We wantsss it. We will haves it, precious, yes. No more waiting." Once again the spidery creature inched towards the sleeping hobbit. Its foul breath, smelling of rotten fish, brushed over its unaware prey, disturbing the hobbits' sleep. Sam groaned again, causing Frodo to whimper and shiver in sympathy. As the yellowed, jagged claws approached their target, the Ring bearer bumped into his friend and guardian, awaking Samwise from his uneasy rest.

Sam's eyes flashed open, and before the gardener realized what he was doing, he found himself wrestling with a pale wraith of skin and bone. He grasped at the skeletal arms and threw punches at the exposed ribcage, but he received more bites and slaps than he could hope to keep up with. Gasping for breath, Sam found those long, snakelike fingers wrapped tightly about his trachea, cutting off all his air. Suddenly the phantom assailant dropped hard to the ground, with Sam still loosely held in its iron clutches, and then the hobbit at last felt the death grip upon his throat ease up.

"Let him go." Sam recognized the form of his best friend, sword in hand, and snarl of rage upon his usually genteel features, but that tone was too steely to be truly from the soft-spoken elder hobbit. "You recognize this sword, don't you, Gollum? This is Sting, the blade that almost killed you before. It will kill you now if you do not let him go. I know what you seek, and why. I am the one you want, not Sam." Frodo's short sword was pressed against the beast's throat, but his face softened, and Samwise thought he detected a hint of growing sympathy in his friend's tone.

The creature gagged, its oversized eyes widening further. Sam drew his own breath in raggedly, pushing the now limp, bony fingers away from him. "So the little sneaker shows his face at last," he growled as he stood. "Guess he ain't man enough to face us when we're awake. He knows we'd've tied him up and left him, after we gave him a thrashin' suitable for tryin' to hurt you, Mister Frodo. I recommend we do at least the first part. We can't afford to have him followin' us."

"No!" the creature formed the first recognizable word the two hobbits had heard out of it, then curled into a ball; covering its pinched face with its thin hands. "You can't leave us. They will find us! We can't let them find us," it wailed in grating, pitiful tones. "They will take us back to the black place, back to Mordor."

"Do you know the way to Mordor?" Frodo asked, lowering his sword. He never took his eyes of the creature's lantern-like orbs as it nodded rapidly and made the noise that named it in the back of its throat once more.

"Beggin' your pardon sir, but have you lost your marbles, Mister Frodo? That thing just tried to kill us," Sam shot his best friend a look before turning his suspicious gaze back towards the unwelcome follower.

"We need a guide, Sam. We've been wandering through Emyn Muil for far too long. This thing – Gollum – will guide us out of here and into Mordor. We'll keep him tied up with the elven rope to make sure he doesn't try anything. He'd follow us anyway, Sam. We'd best make use of him," Frodo tried to explain his more rational reasons for bringing the little cretin along, but the overriding motive was the strange sense of brotherhood he felt with this emaciated, yellow-eyed murderer who smelled of raw, rotten fish and centuries of filth. Gollum had done it all for the Ring, and Frodo was barely beginning to see what the golden band could motivate him to do.


	27. Awakenings

A/N: Well, it's been some time since my last update, now. After 26 chapters, I'm out of prewritten work, so things will be coming a bit more slowly what with editing and typing and so. I'll try to keep them nice and long, at least! But of course, with new work means I could use much more help with unclear passages and grammar errors, so comments are extra appreciated. Tolkien owns the good stuff; I'll claim the idiocy.

* * *

Aragorn pulled his horse back into camp, ignoring its rolling eyes at the faint scent of Warg permeating the forest. Something was out there that had nearly frightened the two animals away, but it had not yet revealed itself to the tired bipedal hunters. Legolas had agreed to take first watch and allow the others to catch back up on their sleep, now that they had a good idea of the trail and the hobbits appeared to be out of immediate danger with their escape from the orcs. Once he arose from his well-deserved nap, Aragorn knew he would have many things to fret about, concerning Merry and Pippin's miraculous escape, their captors, and the evil wizards and Wargs that the horseman had spoken of, but for now the ranger was much more concerned with finding a comfortable square of ground that was far enough from Gimli to spare him from the dwarf's nocturnal kicking. A steel-tipped boot to the Dunedain's empty stomach had twice served as a rejoinder for his "horrible snores," although Strider had trouble believing that anything could top the shorter member of the fellowship's rasps. The ranger felt his oft-broken nose, knowing that this blocked nasal passage was the cause of his companion's complaints. If his sister could be believed, this would be the only likely opportunity he would have to fix it. In truth, a ranger's amount of downtime was preciously small, Aragorn admitted to himself, and Tasana was probably right. If he had to go through the painful practice of fixing his nose, it was best to do so before the bones had completely ossified anyway. Fingering the tortured feature with gritted teeth, Aragorn snapped it back into place. The procedure had become easier with as often as he had to do it, but it still hurt, especially if the Dunedain thought too much about just what he was doing to his own face. Lying down with another small whimper, his back to the snoring dwarf, Strider hoped to finally get some sleep.

It was not to be, however. The whinnying of their horses and the following panicked hoof-beats as the beasts ran from an unseen terror outside of the camp. Aragorn shot up from his half-daze to watch as Legolas halted in his last minute pursuit. "What was that?" asked Gimli, who had also just been awakened. "Not that I'm particularly sorry to see the end of those creatures, mind you." Rough, stumpy fingers were raised in a rude gesture in the direction of the running mounts, and the dwarf's grip tightened upon the handle of his axe. "Bloody horses. At least a Warg would stand and defend," he muttered with a series of dwarvish curses.

"Forgive me." Legolas hung his proud head. "I fell asleep on watch, and the horses fled at the sight of an intruder. He left before I could get a good look at him, but whoever it was, he was draped in a gray cloak."

"You think it was the wizard the Rohirrim spoke of?" Aragorn asked, shaking off his sleepiness for a precious few more minutes. The elf shrugged, unwilling to make eye contact. "Do not worry so, Legolas. Any of us would have done the same. At least you were quick enough to scare our night visitor away." He patted the elf on the shoulder reassuringly. "Get some sleep without so much regret. I'll stand the next watch."

"Are you sure you've gotten enough rest, Aragorn?" Keen elven eyes at last looked into his gray ones. "Look, you've broken your nose again." The archer proffered his longtime friend a handkerchief to bind his bruised nostrils.

"I can answer for him, Master Elf," Gimli spoke up before the ranger could wave Legolas away. "He hasn't gotten much sleep, nor have I, with that racket he's been making. You must have been exhausted to fall asleep to that. I don't blame our sneaky friend from running from this fellow. You sound like a pack of trolls," he directed gruffly to the human. Although he was as irascible as ever, Gimli was nonetheless showing support for his companions. "We may not get warning of an intruder, but at least Strider will scare them off."

"There is nothing we can do but trust to luck," Aragorn said, and then continued quickly before either of his companions could add an inevitable gibe about his snores. "I will set what traps I can, but in truth, none of us are properly awake to defend our camp. We must simply sleep fast."

Gimli required no more words, and sank down where he stood. Legolas patted Aragorn grimly upon the shoulder before finding a spot of his own. "May luck be kind to us then," the archer muttered before drifting off, his back against a tree and his eyes closing slowly. Normally the elf would have slept with his eyes open, in his usual state of meditation. It was a sign of how exhausted the three hunters were that Legolas was out cold in an almost mortal-like sleep. Aragorn, however, did not have much time to think on this as he, too, fell into deepest slumber.

The three did not awaken until late in the next morning. It had gotten too quiet for Legolas's liking, and the absence of any visible fauna had not stopped the sharp-eared elf from noting the sudden lack of sound, from tree and insect alike. The others were still snorting in their sleep, but there were quiet spots now. Not precisely silent, the archer clarified, for he could still hear breathing. He slowed his own breath, listening as hard as he could before opening his eyes. A snore. Gimli. A muttered name on the verge of intelligibility. Aragorn, dreaming of Arwen. A snuffle. Animal sounding. That was not from any of his companions, unless Gaundalan had returned. The young Warg was dead. They had seen the corpse. Who, or more precisely what, was out there, then? He opened his eyelids a tiny amount, scanning the brush.

There. A dead, twisted sapling that did not move with the wind. But how many accompanied the noisemaker, and what were their intentions? Moving quickly, despite his remaining drowsiness, Legolas edged in reach to jolt his nearest ally awake. "M'uggeroff, Gimi," the sleepy ranger mumbled incomprehensibly. "M'ot snorin'." He turned away from the elf, towards the bracken. It was moving more pronouncedly now.

"Estel, the twins will have your head for this, and Elrond your hide." The statement, said often enough during the Dunedain's reckless adolescence, still worked its intended effect, causing Aragorn's eyes to fly open and scan his surroundings guiltily. The elven archer gave his friend a half smile, shaking his head while holding a thin finger to his lips. "There's something in the brush. I don't like the sounds of it. Get Gimli," Legolas directed, pulling an arrow from his quiver. He remained on the ground as long as possible, attempting to pass of his earlier movement as the tossing and turning of a troubled sleeper.

Aragorn made a show of rising and stretching, knowing the archer would have him well covered from an attack, if any were to come. The black-haired man paused, staring at the sleeping dwarf as if unsure whether revenge would prove worth it, and then got control of himself and leant down to shake a blocky shoulder. Gimli had nothing even as comprehensible as Strider had had to say upon wakening, merely swinging a hard fist with a primal grunt until the short, broad hand found the long, broad axe. Using the haft as a crutch, the dwarf rose to his feet with a yawn. Aragorn had found it imperative to move away from him by this point. "What, man?" Gimli returned the Dunedain's stare with somewhat less amusement.

"Trouble. Though it would have had ample opportunity to strike by now, if that were its purpose." Aragorn leant over the moss-covered bushes. "Come out, you. We mean you no harm if you mean us none." No response. Aragorn rustled though the deadfall, but there was nothing to be found but half a paw print, carelessly left in uneven soil. At least this was enough sign to prove that Legolas was not going mad. "You pick an unusual time for games, my friend," the ranger spoke softly to their unseen visitor. "But I shall play your game, and beat it, if that is what it comes down to." Strider began piecing together a trail, motioning for the other two to follow him. Gimli did so grumblingly, grousing that even in this haunted, beast infested, dwarf hating forest, he could have easily slept another week.

"Only until something tried to eat you, Gimli," Legolas corrected him teasingly. "But these old trees have long memories. It might indeed be best to hold your axe a bit lower under their strong boughs." The dwarf followed his friend's eyes up through the branches. It was probably only his imagination that they seemed to be attempting to block out sunlight on purpose, but just in case, he decided to follow the elf's advice.

Wargs normally did not leave much of a trail for human hunters. Tufts of their fur would occasionally be removed by thick bushes, but most wolves would pick a single bush near the pack's den to brush out the spring blow with so that prey was not forewarned of a shaggy hunter's presence. Wide paws insured shallow tracks and quiet movement. Aragorn was not an average tracker, though, and their morning caller had not bothered to watch its step on the way out. It seemed almost too easy to follow the creature's trail. One of Strider's sister's Wargs would have walked right up to them, and a wild third party, even in a moment of panic, would have been more careful than this. It did not take a wolf's nose to smell a trap. But what kind? Whoever had been watching them would have had the trio at its mercy during the night. "Don't lower it too much, though," the Dunedain added to his friends' muted conversation.

Examining a clump of gray and black fur removed from a low hanging branch, Strider checked to make sure his own weapon was loose in its scabbard. "We're getting close."

"There," Legolas pointed. It was not a Warg that stood upon the craggy rock he pointed to, but the figure in gray nevertheless had a familiar quality to him. "That's the one who was in our camp last night." The elf hurriedly drew his strung bow.

"We move quickly, as a group." Aragorn kept his voice down, fearing that any minute now their target would turn around and spot them. The ranger and the dwarf moved into flanking positions as Legolas waited for Aragorn's signal to fire. The shot would be difficult. It would be best if he got a little closer. Edging slowly towards the wizard upon light elven feet, he kept his bow raised and nocked. His hands trembled. He had hunted on little sleep before, and this new bow should give no creak to announce his presence. It was as easy to draw as his old one, and the elf had always prided himself on being able to make any shot, with any bow, any arrow, any target. Almost any, at least. So now why were his fingers trembling like a young boy's? His sight was as keen as ever, yet the outlines of the hooded form seemed to blur. Legolas blew a stray blonde lock, limp with sweat, from his field of vision. The others were never going to hear about this, he promised himself. He just had to hold it steady a little longer, and then he could release. His arms hadn't burned like this in centuries. What was wrong with him?

At long last, he heard Strider's signal, a sudden war cry. He released the arrow thankfully, drawing a second on reflex. His first shot had missed, going high and wide of its target. Legolas attempted to fit the second arrow to the bow, but the string had snapped. But how could it have? Nothing had stung him. Yet, he saw anxiously, the bowstring was no longer there. No matter. He had other weapons. The elf tried to draw a throwing knife, but despite how often he polished and oiled the damn things, they were stuck fast in their sheaths. _If I must die_, Legolas prayed desperately, _please kill me before the dwarf sees me in this foolishness_.

The beleaguered archer might have let loose an amused laugh, had he known how similar his companion's thoughts were. Only a few steps into his charge, Gimli had tripped over his axe handle. Aragorn had thrown his sword, and in the process of avoiding the ill-aimed blade, the dwarf had not minded his own weapon. Swearing volubly at the ranger in order to reassure the Dunedain that he was fine, Gimli had missed seeing the wizard turn towards his companions, a puzzled expression on his weathered face.

"Who are you people?" a voice at once familiar and strange came from the wizard, who revealed robes of brightest white beneath his cowl.

"Gandalf?" Strider hastily scooped up his broadsword, clutching the pommel tightly. Fumbling, he returned his blade to its scabbard.

"Gandalf," mused the old wizard, turning his polished staff in his hands. There was a faint glint of recognition in his eyes, and something fainter that just might be read as amusement. "They used to call me that: Gandalf the Gray. But I am Gandalf the White, now." He smiled at the ranger. "Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli. Now I remember."

"You could have remembered before you used such powerful magic upon us, Gandalf," the elf stated, picking up his mysteriously reappearing, oddly whole bowstring.

"Or a bloody big sword," Gimli added with a miffed glare in Aragorn's direction.

"Powerful magic. I saw you trip over your haft," he replied in a whisper. Mortified, the dwarf nodded his agreement. "But how did you return to us?" Strider asked the wizard.

Gandalf proceeded to tell the three hunters of his fight with the Balrog, his journey through a place outside of time, and subsequent return to Middle Earth, with stops in Lothlorien and Rohan before coming to these woods. His friends were awed of course, but as Gandalf offered to whistle their horses back, assuring them that Merry and Pippin were safe with a friend of his, there were a few quiet whispers between the others. "Tasana and Boromir never hear of this." Aragorn hid his twitching, embarrassed half-smile in a greeting to the young brown Warg that had followed Gandalf since his return to life. A youthful northern male from the fringes of Mirkwood, Cer'yaken had shown great promise, in Gandalf's estimation. Great promise for what, the wizard refused to reveal.

"Naturally. Neither does my father." Legolas knelt briefly beside the ranger and the northern wolf before taking up the bridle of his gray gelding and marveling at the wizard's Rohirric stallion.

"Don't tell the hobbits then, or all those and more shall soon have news of it." Gimli added, measuring up the Warg before deciding it too small and untamed to properly bear his weight.

"A most fortunate thing they are with friends of Gandalf, aye?" the elf offered him a hand up for their mount.

"Indeed." Gimli looked about the forest before turning resignedly back to the horse he shared with Legolas.

"You know, it is possible that he actually did use magic, and we're overreacting because we're tired." Two iron stares greeted the Dunedain's attempt at logic. "Just don't let Arwen know either, right?" he sighed.

"Not a word." Legolas made as if to seal his lips with a thin, callused hand. Gimli nodded empathetically. "Not to a single soul."

* * *

"It's time." Tasana awoke to a cold nose against her back. Gonaki always knew exactly how to find the most sensitive square inch of her skin and place the chilliest piece of living flesh the healer had ever had the misfortune to encounter directly against it. She rolled towards his nose, knowing from long experience that the alpha enjoyed completing this prank by stepping on her hair.

"What?" she growled sleepily. The black wolf had avoided her hair this morning, at least.

"You said you would join me. Do you still feel capable of it, zwiero?" The Warg's posture was redoubtable, but for once he seemed neither playful nor angry in his challenge.

"I told you I'd run with you once he has healed." The woods woman stroked her patient's still-sleeping form. Boromir had had a bad night of it. All too often, he had had bad nights. Even with sleeping potions steeped in painkillers, his sleep was fitful and agitated. If Tasana held him, it seemed to calm him somewhat, but she could feel her lover shudder against her from time to time. Shivers caused by no Wargish nostrils wracked his body on the worst nights, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

Gonaki looked upon the man with a critical eye, recognizing his discomfort and sympathizing despite himself. "There is nothing you can do for him. The mind and body are interconnected. Until he thinks himself able to heal, he will not. There is no point in you remaining here, for your pity will only lengthen the process."

"That's sweet of you to try to make me feel better, but I know how to recognize a fever, old wolf. I've dealt with these before." Chev'yahna buried her hand in the rough fur behind the alpha's ears. She had intended to merely ruffle them, but the Warg recognized her need for comfort. He leaned into her, allowing his human pup to wrap her arms about his furry neck. There were some things one had to tolerate when dealing with zwiero, after all. Especially females.

"You stink of a den-mother's fear. Even his poor nose must sense it. Come with me, and let him heal on his own without such distractions. Mithilira will keep an eye on him." Gonaki reassured her.

Tasana wavered. Perhaps the old alpha was right, and she was keeping her beloved from healing. Had Boromir had a bad reaction to the willowbark? She didn't believe so; she had had a bit of it herself after a particularly sleepless night. Still, giving him a few days without sleeping potions or other herbs would let him recover a bit of his own strength back. She had not saved her warrior from the orcs with the intention of killing him through kindness. "How long will we be gone?"

"As long as it takes us," the black Warg replied obliquely. Tasana gave him an irritated stare. She trusted the pack, more than she trusted herself in many matters, but she didn't intend to leave Boromir without aid for longer than she had to. Gonaki returned her look with yellow-eyed indifference, a brisk shake of his ruff substituting for a shrug. "Shall I predict the length of the next hunt, as well? I know not what to expect from my brother."

The healer bit her lip, considering her options. "If you insist, I shall go with you, but I'd like to wait until he reawakens before we leave." It was the wolf's turn to give her an impatient stare. "Do you hunt when your pack mates sleep?" she questioned him.

"I hunt when I am hungry," he returned irritably. "And when my pack needs me to. They need me now, Chev'yahna. They needed us long ago."

"Aye, but so does Boromir." The woods woman absently reached to stroke her lover's hair. Gonaki snuffed impatiently. He repeated his awakening method upon the sleeping human before Tasana could object, or move her hand. Boromir's eyes flashed open, and he jerked away from the Warg. "Unfair, Gonaki," Chev'yahna growled, trying to ease her wounded warrior's fears. This process was made more difficult as she tried to bury her pique with the Sekrahc.

Boromir had automatically reached for his missing broken sword at the chill touch of the Warg's nose, but eventually Tasana's quiet, calm presence placated him. "What was that, love?" he asked her.

"The giant puppy is being irritating again," she replied, making brief eye contact with the mischievous alpha.

"Aye, she is," the black wolf deadpanned. His tongue was lolling in laughter, but he did not flick his ears back in rebuke when she looked him in the eye. Gonaki was a friend, and Tasana could not forget that.

"The reason he woke you though, - well, really the reason we woke you, though I would have preferred another method – " she started awkwardly.

"As would I," Boromir added sardonically. She leaned forward at his soft tug upon her arm and kissed him. "Much better," he murmured with a sigh. "But you were saying?"

"I'd prefer to continue this," Tasana whispered back, her body resting lightly upon his wrapped ribs.

"Come, now," her lover kissed her softly. "One shouldn't bother a bedridden man and then expect him to forget the matter out of hand. Though I must admit you do come up with some very nice distractions." He smiled, resting his forehead against her own.

The woman tried to turn her head away, only to meet the gentle resistance of his hand against her cheek. "Boromir, my darling, you know that I love you, don't you, my lord?"

"I do, just as you know I love you in return." A sudden light, at once teasing and hopeful, came into his eyes. "Have you decided to accept my proposal, Tasana?" She shook her head gently.

"Not yet. And that is all I shall say on that topic today." She placed a finger against his lips to ward off questions.

"All right then." Kissing the admonitory finger; Boromir laid his head back and regarded her bemusedly through half-lidded eyes. "What is it then?"

Tasana did not want to tell him. When he smiled like that, with a hint of mischief in his eyes instead of pain, for once, she did not see how it was possible for her to leave him. She glanced waveringly towards Gonaki, but the alpha simply stared at her, with his usual mix of condescension and sympathy. There was need in the old Warg's eyes as well, though, a plea for help that could not be denied, although she knew not exactly how her aide would prove useful. If she could not heal Boromir, when her duty required it and her skill offered her the means to do so, what help could a human woman be in pack affairs? "The Sekrahc requires me to accompany him," she murmured a last into his shoulder, unwilling to look into her lover's warm hazel eyes. "I know not how long we will be gone."

"Is the whole pack leaving?" Boromir pulled her face up, seeking her worried eyes. She shook her head.

"Just me, Gonaki, and a few of the older hunters. Most of the pack will stay here with you and Mithilira." Boromir's expression required further explanation, so she added nervously, "She's pregnant. That's why she can't come with us. 'Naki didn't want to risk the pups, but he wanted a seer to come to the meeting. That's why he needs me. Oh, Boromir, I don't want to leave you," Tasana cried, throwing her arms about his neck. He stroked her hair, clinging tightly to her.

"I don't want you to leave, either. But it's just a few days, after all, isn't it?" he sounded as if he were attempting to assuage himself as much as her.

"I presume so," she said dubiously. "But I don't know for certain. And I don't want to leave you like this. Will you be all right, with the Wargs?" His mouth was twisted in that old self-mocking half-smile, but he placed his fingertips gently against her trembling lips.

"Just don't tell me your wolf-mother will take care of me, and I suppose I can tolerate it." His hands flicked away from her. "Now don't make a scene. I can't stand long good-byes." Mutely, she nodded, kissed him soundly, and withdrew before she could fully surrender her senses to his arms. "Gods, woman, leave, before I make a fool of myself!"

"I'll be back shortly as possible. Don't die on me," she said, following after her alpha.

"The same goes for you," Boromir called after her. He laid there, on the edge of death, alone save for beasts he barely knew. And yet, it was the woods woman he feared for, with proper cause. It did not take a seer's talent to see that Sahnchanc's lands were sure to prove dangerous.

* * *

Wargish Glossary-

Gonaki- the alpha of Tasana's pack, also called 'Naki

Sahnchanc- the alpha of the Isen pack, Gonaki's brother

Sekrahc- Alpha male

Zwiero- bipedal creature, may also be used as plural or adjective


	28. Views of What is to Come

A/N: Random website plugging of the day: I've had a few people ask me how I envision the Wargs for this series. Generally I think of dire wolves/large _canis lupis_, but there's one picture of Carcharoth that really inspired my impression of Gonaki at Rolzo Tolkien . com: http:fan. theonering. net/ rolozo/image /sjogren?hide-9 &filenameberenluthien. jpg. The picture is by Per Sjogren, Tolkien owns LotR.

* * *

Merry and Pippin were finding their new friend very interesting indeed. Treebeard had put them upon his shoulders once more, carrying the young hobbits to the center of a large, secluded clearing some miles from his home. Within this place, they had been introduced to a variety of tree-like ents, with wise old yellow eyes and bark-like skin. The ents had resembled a wide variety of different trees. All of them seemed to share Treebeard's placid, unhurried demeanor, although their calm seemed ruffled by events in Fangorn Forest. Their voices, on the edge of comprehension, rumbled in tones of rustled leaves and muted thunder.

"Stay here." Treebeard put the hobbits down at the edge of the clearing in which his fellows gathered. "I will return for you when the moot is finished."

"How long is it likely to take?" Merry asked him. They had drunk more of their host's entdraught before leaving the premises, but that single glass each wouldn't last the young hobbits all morning.

"A very long time," Fangorn's voice held a tone of gravelly forbearance. "We speak of things worth saying, and in our language, anything worth saying takes a long time to say."

Merry nodded. "So, Pippin and I will just go look for some grub, then," he said with a vague wave towards the forest.

"Not by yourselves." The ent cautioned them. "That tree you mentioned, the one that once tried to eat you, hroom; I believe it was a huoron. Root and twig, but I had never imagined them becoming that feisty. The huorons are similar to ents, but they do not move so much. Never forget that they are powerful when angered, though, leaf and lichen, very powerful indeed. They reside throughout this forest, so it would be best if you stayed here, where you will be safe with us." Treebeard motioned with long, branching arms to include his fellow ents.

Merry had no desire to encounter another live tree like that cursed willow in the Old Forest, just outside of the Shire. While he was certain that Treebeard would do his best to help the hobbits if they should find themselves in trouble, there was no guarantee that he would find them in time. It had been pure luck that they had gotten help the last time. But still, this clearing was fairly close to Fangorn's garden, so it was likely that there were animals about. And wherever there were animals, food was apt to be found not far away. "Er, I don't suppose there'd be anyone willing to go with us, just for a few minutes or so?" Merry scratched his head. Much longer around these ents and he would be "hrooming" and "huruming" too.

"We won't keep them long," Pippin added. The younger hobbit scanned the assembled moot, hoping to find one that moved faster than the others did. Treebeard followed his gaze. After a moment, the old tree-herder motioned to a willowy ent; small and young compared to the rest.

As Treebeard began his greeting in the slow, deep rumbles of old entish, the young ent cut him off with a few matching tones and nodded. "It would be my pleasure," the willowy newcomer replied before turning to introduce himself to Merry and Pippin. "My name is Quickbeam, as I tend to be rather hasty, for an ent. I take it you two are the hobbit folk Treebeard met?" Quickbeam gave his elder an apologetic look as the young hobbits introduced themselves in turn. Satisfied, Treebeard left for the council with the admonishment to keep safe and not act too rashly.

"What did you say that upset him?" Peregrin asked the tree-herder as Quickbeam lifted them to his supple, branching shoulders.

"Treebeard was saying 'good morning' to me. If I had let him finish, it would be nighttime by the end of his greeting." There was a mischievous twinkle to the ent's mismatched amber eyes that made Merry think they would become fast friends with their new guardian. "I believe there's some good rabbit-hunting ground not far south of here. Entdraught is all very well and good, but Fangorn forgets that you are free folk, and not trees, and so your bellies may crave variety."

"Rabbit sounds wonderful," Merry replied, helping to boost his cousin to the ent's shoulders. A short while and a few snares later, both hobbits were lying sated upon the forest floor. Even after his third coney, Pippin still idly popped a few early raspberries into his mouth from a nearby bush. "Now this, this is the life," Merry gestured with a berry swiped from his cousin's hand. They were still green, but the hobbits had found nothing to complain about in this regard. "Best I've eaten in ages."

"Really?" Quickbeam asked, his amusement plain in his whispery voice. Even a young ent such as he had outlived the hobbits by far; having seen a century for the small folk's every year.

"Oh, yes, ages and ages," Pippin agreed. All three companions were having trouble maintaining straight faces, but the younger hobbit was making an admirable attempt. "These are better than Farmer Maggot's mushrooms, and that's a high complement."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Merry rejoined him. "They need a bit more time to ripen, if they're ever going to be as good as the raspberries were in my day."

"Yes, but we don't have to steal them." Pippin had a point there. The conversation slowly lapsed, after a few polite inquiries from Quickbeam, and Peregrin's cheeky response not to meddle in the affairs of hobbits, for they are rascals and love to gossip. Merry, at least, was willing to entertain the ent's questions in order to live up to his race's standards, but Pippin, full, drowsy, and at peace for the first time in many days, did not bother to attempt to keep track of the threads of talk. He instead listened vaguely to the whispering of trees, now quiet and soothing, now booming as if in the throes of a thunderstorm. "Do you think they'll make up their minds anytime soon?" he asked idly.

"As Fangorn has said, probably not for a long while yet," Quickbeam replied. He too, though, stopped talking, listening to the distant entish. Suddenly, he lowered his arms for the hobbits, swinging Pippin to his shoulder.

"What's wrong, Quickbeam?" Merry asked him, tightening his grip as the ent moved faster than any of his kind that the hobbit had yet seen.

"The council is coming to a decision, one I fear it will regret," he replied heavily. "It is time for me to speak my part in this moot."

His uprooted passengers traded wary glances. Merry was sure they had impressed upon Treebeard the dangers that would come to Fangorn Forest, whether the ents chose to take part in battle or not. What decision could they be coming to, if Quickbeam was in such a rush to stop it? "Is there anything we can do?" Merry asked. The ent, however, had already begun his argument, his voice bellowing angry tones in the old tongue of his people. More than one member of the moot looked up in alarm as this vision of fury advanced upon their ring.

Quickbeam barely paused in the clearing, however. He continued marching, and one by one, the others followed after in their uneven, stiff-legged gait. Faster than Merry had thought possible, they came to the edge of the forest. A tower, its color dimmed by smoke and dirt, stood in the middle of a large ring of interconnected pits. The forest had been clear-cut and blackened for as far as the eye could see. A high dam stood in the distance, cutting off the flow of the Isen River. And further off in the other direction, dust rose from the trampling of an army. "Well," murmured Treebeard. "This does indeed give us much to consider."

* * *

It didn't take long to get out of Emyn Muil with Gollum's help, although it certainly felt like a long time to Frodo, with Sam grumbling the entire way. The younger hobbit seemed to cling to Frodo, unwilling to let the walking skeleton of a creature get closer to his friend than he was. "I don't see how you put up with that little stinker," Sam commented to the ring bearer. The older hobbit shrugged, mentally reminding himself to talk to Samwise about his paranoia once they settled in for the night. At that moment though, they needed to catch up with Gollum. "Where's he taking us now?" Sam wrinkled his nose at the foul stench on the air. It had grown since their departure from Emyn Muil.

"Come, now, hobbitses," Gollum's sibilant, frog-like voice drifted back to them with the smell of decay. "There's a secret path here. A dark path. Quick and quiet, where nassty orcses don't go. Orcs don't use it. Orcs don't know it. But Smeagol does." The skeletal ape motioned towards a strip of waterlogged vegetation.

"A swamp," Samwise muttered distastefully. "Are you sure about this, Mr. Frodo?"

"Let's go, Sam," Frodo Baggins followed the wildly gesturing being. Gollum had taken a liking to Frodo after the elder hobbit had learned his true name, but the rivalry between Sam and his long-limbed assailant was as strong as ever. The only thing that kept them from all-out battle was their mutual devotion to the ring bearer.

"Trust Smeagol, follow Sméagol," Gollum said encouragingly. "And don't follow the lights, fat hobbit."

"What do we have to worry about lights for?" Sam asked. If he squinted, he could make out distant fires in the swamp, too small for campfires, yet eerie in their bright green flames all the same. "You sure there's no orcs in here?"

"No orcses, sstupid hobbit. They march and march around for miles, around this land. A great fight happened here, and all the elveses and orcses went to light their little candles in the swamp. Follow them, and the hobbitses will be lighting their own candles, gollum." A snaggletoothed, predatory grin accompanied this statement, as the thin shadow flitted before Sam.

"I don't like this," Samwise muttered again, focusing upon his feet. The path was none too stable, and Gollum was forced to double back often to make sure that his followers were keeping up with him. He grabbed one hobbit or the other with his snaking arms whenever they appeared in danger of falling, accompanying his help with pleas to hurry them along and whispered cursings of the clouded moonlight. No matter his reassurances about the lack of orcs, Gollum seemed paranoid of followers. Or perhaps he simply hated the light, after living so long in darkness. Either way, it did little to reassure Frodo. He trusted their guide, as he had little other choice now, but the parallels betwixt guide and ring bearer drew stronger with every day and every step closer to Mordor.

Sam, too, feared the moonlight, but only for its shadows. The flames danced at the edge of his vision, but he did his best not to watch them. Whether or not Gollum was right, the bog-lights were uncanny in the darkness. In the moonlight, it was all too easy to imagine the flames as restless spirits of long-forgotten warriors. More than anything else, Samwise watched his feet, as every squelching step made him uneasy. It was because he had just gotten his foot stuck in the mud again that he missed Frodo's plunge. Yanking upon his restricted member, and doing his best to ignore the slinking, yellow-eyed beast that muttered sillibant curses at him, he did not see Frodo walk straight into a deep pool of muddy water with his eyes focused blankly upon a guttering flame in the distance.

Gollum hissed, flowing to the downed hobbit's side without seeming to need to pass through the marsh between his former position and his new one. Roughly, the bony arms yanked Frodo from certain slow death. "Don't follow the lights, hobbitses." His yellow eyes glowed as he chastised his rescued charge. He leveled a cautionary glare at Samwise, which was amply returned. "Come," he spat the last word, depositing Frodo on a more stable patch of ground.

Sam, freed of his own muddy shackle, came over and tried to brush some of the filth from his friend's clothes and hair. "What happened? Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?"

Wringing out the worst of the water from his cloak, the elder hobbit stilled Sam's hands. "I suppose I was – distracted," he said quietly. His voice still did not sound like he was concentrating very much upon current matters. "There were people down there, spirits. Elves, men, orcs, all dead, all rotting. They – they tried to bring me down there with them." Frodo shivered, and Sam knew it was not simply caused by the damp. The darker-haired hobbit reached inside his wet tunic for the chain about his throat. He fingered the ring upon it and let loose a deep breath. A more reassured, but still distant expression settled upon his face. "Let's go on, Sam. We shouldn't spend any more time in this swamp than we have to."

"I couldn't have put it better myself," Sam returned his old friend's wan smile. "Now where's that slinker got off to?" With squelching steps, the two set off after their shady guide. A slight wind stirred the stench of the marshes, bringing the moon free of the clouds. Caught in the bright light, Gollum hunkered down, throwing his long, pale arms over his frog-faced head. "Now what?" Sam muttered.

Gollum continued to gibber, shaking as Frodo reached down for his bony shoulder. "What's the matter?" Frodo asked delicately, with no small hint of trepidation when just what could be wrong came to mind.

"The Pale Face shall give us away!" Gollum wailed. "They will ssee us, and then we must go back to their nassty dungeons." Keeping a lank arm over his scraggly, greasy hair, he rushed for a collection of leafless bracken and dove beneath it, huddling in the mud.

"Pale face?" Sam inquired doubtingly. A long, bony finger pointed up at the moon. Sam turned, and saw a black shadow steal across it, followed by the same high-pitched shriek they had heard along the great river. Frodo stared after it, seemingly hypnotized. Sam grabbed hold of him and lunged after Gollum. Keeping a hand over his friend's mouth to keep him from crying out, Sam spent a fearful eternity crouched in horror next to his enemy. They would not quickly mend their differences, but in this moment, it was their similar terrors that mattered. Another scream faded off into the distance. "Are they gone?" Sam whispered, releasing Frodo. The dark-haired hobbit stared strickenly up into the night sky.

"They is never gone," Gollum whispered grimly.

""Not until they find us." Frodo's expression was distant and tormented, watching the twinkle of the far-off marsh lights.

Gollum gave Frodo a long look and then nodded. "We must protect the Precious."

Frodo nodded back, gripping the Ring tightly beneath his shirt. "We will."


	29. Meetings of Foes

Disclaimer: LotR belongs to Tolkien. The first use of the weapon wielded by Legolas was in the hands of Merry in plasticchevy's "The Captain and The King." Great story and good sequel. Go read it now. Even if you already have, you've got to admit it's an awesome AU, no? Just read it again.

Also, a big thanks to BoromirDefender of "Gimli and Boromir Strike Back" for beta-reading this!

All right, now that I've finished my regularly scheduled plugging, here's the chapter:

* * *

"I, for one, am glad to return these foul beasts," Gimli said, gripping Legolas's waist more tightly than necessary. With no need for trickery to boost the dwarf into the saddle, the elf had opted to ride in front, as to better steer their mount. Gandalf and Shadowfax had set a quick pace, and Gimli's views of horses had not been particularly improved by the sight or speed of the wizard's kingly steed. "May they curse some other soul," he grumbled. 

"But we may need them later," Legolas warned him. "We know not what is going on in Rohan. The view that Lord Eomer has expressed, at least, is not very heartening."

"Bugger," the dwarf muttered absently in return. The two companions rode silently for some time after that, each with his own drowsy thoughts. Legolas was right; they had promised the horse-lords that they would find some way to take care of the invading Wargs, even though none of them really had that much experience with such creatures, except for perhaps Gandalf. The elf's eyes strayed to the brown wolf running at the white stallion's heels. Somehow, he didn't think that this one young Warg would be able to fix the issues between men and the rabid ghost-wolf that the three hunters had encountered eariler. Still, he had to admit that having Gandalf back was a great and unlooked-for advantage.

"Where are we riding to?" Gimli asked, unwilling to pull his face from Legolas's back for fear of seeing the horse beneath them.

"Edoras, the capitol of Rohan. Lots of horses there," Legolas added with a mischevious grin.

"May they trample you, elf." Despite the quick retort, Gimli did not seem in the mood for repartee. "Going to sort out these men, now, are we?"

"It's better than sorting out the Wargs and orcs." Legolas replied, his eyes hardening with the grim humor.

"We may need to do that later, too." The dwarf let his eyes drift briefly to the yearling, now lagging behind Shadowfax, before reaffixing them to his friend's back. The elf had no reply to that.

The company finally slowed their horses as they approached the cluster of buildings that served as the nomadic horse-breeders' captiol. This was mostly farmland and plains-grasses, with granaries and small, ramshackle houses huddled towards the great hall of Meduseld. Even though it was made of the same timber and stone as the smaller houses, the Golden Hall still deserved its name from its brightly thatched roof. Recently, however, even this building was beginning to fall into disrepair.

Riding at a slow pace, Leoglas examined the empty streets, knowing that the dwarf behind him did the same. "I've seen funerals that were more cheerful." Gimli declared after a few moments.

There was no one in sight, save for a pair of opulently clad guardsmen posted outside the hall. Occasionally, Legolas could make out a face peeking out from behind a closed door or saw a curtain twitch fretfully, but they never stayed there long if they thought someone had seen. The dwarf's funeral comparision was more apt than he had intended, for the whole city seemed to be on a deathwatch: a deathwatch for the demise of their country.

At the stairs approaching the Golden Hall, the company dismounted, much to Gimli's relief. A pair of stablemen came warily out of their sanctuary to take away Aragorn and Legolas's mounts, but neither even attempted to touch the white stallion Shadowfax. One could hardly tell if they feared Gandalf's horse or his Warg more.

"Don't worry, Shadowfax knows his homeland well enough, and Cer'yaken will doubtlessly follow him." The wizard explained to his friends, shifting his gray riding cloak to better cover his white robes. "Shadowfax is a stallion of the mearas blood; you will not find a better horse in all of Middle-earth. Let us go on, then." Back in his element, Gandalf led his three remaining companions up the steps, taking Aragorn by the arm to speak softly with the Dunadan of the events since his fall.

The guard at the doorway held out a hand to stop them. "No one enters this hall bearing arms. You must leave your weapons here if you wish to see Theoden-King." With only a few grumbles from the dwarf, the company handed over axe, bow, swords, and what was presumed to be all of their knives to the speaker's associate. However it appeared that the guard was not yet satisfied.

"Your staff, sir." the first guard tapped his spear against Gandalf's polished cane.

"You wouldn't separate an old man from his walking stick, now, would you?" Gandalf gave a pathetic smile and leaned a bit more heavily into Strider, playing up his gambit. The guard looked to his associate and shrugged, waving them inside.

While there were more people within the hall than there had been out on the streets, it was just as quiet and morose within as it was without. Liveried servants scurried about their duties, avoiding the outsiders' eyes. Forms that appeared to be soldiers, although they shared no common uniform, lounged in darker corners of the drafty hall. Tapestries that looked as if they had not been aired out in months lined the dingy walls. Upon the throne at the rear of the hall sat a pallid old man in a scruffy robe, staring red-eyed at something beyond mortal sight. The two people seated at his sides were similar only in their paleness. The man at his right sat forward at the company's entrance, a vicious smirk playing at his thin lips, bringing the veins below his greasy complexion into focus, but the pale-haired woman at the aging king's left did not look up from her lord's face.

"Uncle, come now, we have visitors," she whispered, her touch delicate and loving upon the king's face. Neither her worried look nor her light caress appeared to affect the dazed expression in the slightest. Aragorn could see the familal resemblance between Eomer and his sister, but Theoden was so obviously ill that it was hard for a healer such as the ranger to see him as more than a pathetic piece of humanity that desperately needed some assistance.

"Gandalf Stormcrow, you pick a poor time to come," the greasy black-haired man spoke up, seemingly delighted with his own boldness. "Your ways are known to us, and we shall not stand for your doom-saying any longer. Shall we, my lord?"

"You are not welcome," Theoden's voice creaked from disuse. The little man at his side nodded reaffirmingly, and the king's niece stared coolly at him, her blue-grey eyes frosted over with restrained loathing. There appeared to be little love lost between the two.

"You cannot blame the messenger for what you have brought down upon yourself, Grima Wormtongue. I suggest you keep that forked tongue of yours firmly betwixt your teeth, ere it proves your downfall." Gandalf straightened and placed both hands upon his staff.

"Pah! I am Theoden-king's most trusted advisor, am I not my lord?" Eyes bulging behind stray lanks of hair, Grima chose to interpret the old king's vague tremors as acceptance of this fact. "What makes you think you can challenge me?"

"Your very overconfidence, Worm. I know your master, and he can spread his lies through you no longer. Saruman's power is fading through his abuse of it. Shall you join him in the downfall you so rightfully deserve?"

Grima laughed, although it sounded much more nervous than the councilor had likely intended."Saruman is a friend and ally of Rohan, unlike some of you meddling wizards. I quite naturally discuss certain areas of diplomacy with him. We shall need the most powerful allies we can get in these dark times you bring upon us, now, shall we not?"

"His power comes from the armies he breeds for Sauron," Gandalf decreed. The statement brought a surprised, angry look to the maiden's face, but neither the king nor his advisor appeared moved by it.

"More of your lies! What proof do you have, Stormcrow?" Grima snarled, fear and loathing mixing in his tone.

"Wargs attack your troops even now, and the king's son lies dead from an orc attack. How much more proof do you require?" Aragorn stepped forward from the wizard's side, and Wormtongue cowered back into his seat, away from the menacing Dunadan.

The lady's eyes misted over at the mention of her cousin's death and the blank expression that remained upon her uncle's face. Gathering up her courage, she showed the steel that lay beneath her lily-white grace. "Even a stranger can see your folly." Her icy eyes flashed dangerously towards the shrinking advisor. "I would ask that you remove this snake's poison from my uncle's realm, Gandalf."

"So it shall be done." Gandalf's riding cloak fell away, revealing the dazzling white robes beneath.

Wormtongue scrambled to Theoden's feet, hunkering at his master's side, in a desperate ploy for shielding. "I thought I told them to take away his staff," he muttered, his cloudy eyes transfixed upon the wizard. "Guards! Remove them!" he called desperately.

Gimli and Legolas were a step ahead of him though, protecting the wizard's back with a combination of sheer brawn and a small dagger that Legolas had secreted somewhere about his person. "You haven't hurt any of them, have you?" the dwarf grunted disapprovingly, bending a much taller aggressive man's arm behind his back and stepping upon another who had attempted to crawl away.

"No more than you have." The elf swiped at another who came too close for his liking, and the guard in question backed away, seeming suddenly unsure of how to wield his spear when confronted with the archer's lightning reflexes.

"You wouldn't let me bring an axe, yet you've no problems with breaking our host's rules," Gimli harangued his friend.

"It's a cheese knife. It hardly counts as a weapon, don't you think?" Legolas flashed him the handle as the flabbergasted guards retreated from him. Gimli grinned widely at the sight.

Aragorn had stepped towards the throne and the stunned Wormtongue, who shyed away from the ranger in fear, leaving the fallen advisor an open target for Gandalf. "Milady," Strider said gently, taking her arm firmly under his own. "It may be best if we do not interfere here." He had seen the murderous look in the woman's pale grey eyes and knew that the wizard would not have a very large window of oppurtunity if no one stepped in. The king's niece looked as if she would have been quite happy to take a move or two out of Gimli's book.

"On your belly, Worm!" Gandalf's voice rang out. Grima fell before his menacing staff. "Too long have you blinded your king's eyes to the dangers of your true master. How long have you been in Saruman's employ? What was your promised reward? Riches beyond your ken when all others were dead?" Grima shook his head wildly, his eyes darting to the barely restrained maiden at Aragorn' side.

She spat at him, enraged. "No longer shall you haunt my steps, snake. No longer will your voice sully my dreams." She was stronger than she looked, Aragorn noted. He had had less trouble holding back drunken elves. He patted her arm gently, attempting to find a better brace.

Gandalf nodded mutely, his old eyes kind upon her face. "This worm's ultimate fate should be up to the king though, for he has harmed Theoden king more than anyone else." It was the lady's turn to nod, her carefully constructed shield of anger evaporating as she considered her uncle's still blank expression.

"Perhaps the feel of his sword in his hands would help his majesty to see things more clearly once again." Blue eyes smiled into those the color of a winter morning, and the lady bolted from the ranger's grip. Commands were passed down, men freed from the prisons and were replaced by other, less savory individuals, many of the latter of which would never look at cheese in the same way again, and locked trunks were searched for items, much to Grima's distress.

At last, one of the door wardens approached a smiling king's niece with a wrapped sheath. "We found it with his possessions, milady, just as you said we would." He bowed before her, handing her the sword.

"I thank you, Hama. Your loyalty to the king suits you well," she replied over Wormtongue's protesting explanations. After suffering through a minute of these, Gimli silenced the cowering advisor with a well-shod boot to the stomach.

"My lord?" the maiden did not dare to raise her voice for fear of breaking the spell upon the room as she tenderly reached for her king's hand. Slowly, she wrapped the sallow, wizened palm about the hilt of the sword. "Uncle?"

"Eowyn," the voice, still unsure of itself, sounded much stronger. Aragorn was not sure that he dared to trust his eyes, but the man seated before them now hardly looked like the oldster poised on the verge of collapse of moments eariler. The blonde woman's eyes misted over in tears of bittersweet joy at her uncle's look of dazed but focusing befuddlement. "Where is my son?" Unwilling to answer him yet, Eowyn threw her arms about his neck, crying into the restored king's shoulder.

* * *

"I haven't been to Isen in the springtime in ages," Gonaki said conversationally as he darted about the forest. He took great delight in trotting circles around the human.

The woods were beautiful, Tasana silently added, or would be so if they were not so waterlogged. The spring rains had come with a vengeance, and the South Woods had eagerly soaked it up, its wet branches putting forth new leaves that now dripped in the watery post-storm sunshine. The animals of the forest had also absorbed a good deal of water, and part of the alpha's reasons for staying out of the woods woman's reach was to avoid retribution for having shaken his coat all over her. Tasana had become visibly upset about this, but not for the damage to her already weather-beaten clothes. She and her companions had taken shelter in the roots of a rotting tree, but there were no guarantees that Boromir had managed to do the same. When she had left him, he had hardly been able to sit up on his own. She supposed that some well-meaning pack mate had likely dragged him back to the den, but that would be murder on his ribs.

She should not have left him, Tasana criticized herself again. Gonaki needed her for this venture; otherwise, he would not have even told her when he was leaving, but would it have killed anyone if she had waited just another week or so for her warrior to get back on his feet? Mithilira was expecting pups, besides. This would be the first time in twenty years that the healer would not be on hand for the birth of the seeress's cubs. Gonaki was going mad, and Chev'yahna had been carried away by the big Warg's madness. That was the only reasonable explanation. She did not believe the Sekrahc's theory on her fear-smell for a minute.

Many a wolf in the pack owed its life to the woods woman's care, including Wirsankor, who had been the smallest runt Tasana had ever seen, a throwback to the Warg's smaller lupine ancestors. As a pup, he had been spindly and much too skinny, a weak rat attempting to compete with the young wolves that were his littermates. Uncertain of his survival, Chev'yahna had hand-fed him, despite his mother's reservations about letting anyone around her offspring. Even this day, after nearly twenty years on a meat diet, his small stature made it difficult for him to keep up with the other hunters at a dead run. Instead, Wirsankor preferred to stick to stalking, letting his family drive the game to him before he applied his teeth to its underbelly. This gray-faced dwarf amongst Wargs could trot even with his father, but not without some effort. Right now, he kept to the rearguard, doubling back along their trail to watch for signs of pursuit.

At least Tasana had not been the only one lured into Gonaki's madness. Her fellow travelers were preciously few, but both Wirsankor and Roliran were powerful, experienced hunters. The brothers were not the most accepting of the changes in their pack, but they trusted their alpha absolutely. If their father felt that it was time to confront Sahnchanc, then they would add their howls to council and their teeth to war, if it should it come to that. Tasana hoped it did not. She too, had not been to Isen in many seasons, but she had always rather liked Sahnchanc. There was just something refreshing about being looked at as some sort of mythic figure out of legend after several seasons as "that zwiero," or worse, "that fool girl."

But the younger alpha went too far with such things. Tasana had long ago shown herself to be an asset to the packs, but not some essential savior. Sahnchanc had looked long and hard for some sign of greatness to manifest itself in the woods woman, but whatever he had been looking for continued to elude him. The last time she had seen him, there had been a rising unconscious resentment in the ebon-backed alpha's mannerisms toward her and his brother, for Sahnchanc was deeply religious but had little patience for the ineffable timeline of the gods. He was certain that he had encountered a sign or two in his wandering years of a savior to come, and was sure that it would happen within his lifetime. Surely, though, Sahnchanc's zeal would not lead him to allow the destruction of his territory.

As they approached the river that divided the two brothers' provinces, the healer could not deny that no matter the reason, Sahnchanc's lands were being despoiled. Rumors of immortal, deformed wolves that were impervious to weapons had begun to reach Gonaki's ears, driving the black alpha even harder towards his brother's lands. Who knows what corruption a twisted wizard might wreak upon his brother's pack?

A Warg, like any other creature, was merely flesh and blood. To its pack mates, a wolf could be the greatest friend and staunchest ally imaginable, to its enemies, a deadly threat indeed. But even so, it was no creature out of legend, spun of moonlight and forest shadow, but a live animal like any other, prone to failure and mercy, betrayal and kindness, subject to the whims of its nature and nature itself. Tasana reminded herself of this as she surveyed the broken forests surrounding Isengard.

The few trees left standing forlornly among the fallen remains of their fellows were broken and torn, graffiti carved into their stricken trunks. The underbrush had been ripped or burned away, leaving blackened patches across the marred stumps. Even the still living plants were good only for kindling. Where green mosses had covered the dusky forest floor, adding their aroma to that of the thriving animal kingdom that had ever been dominated by the Wargs that meted out nature's balance, only white rents of ash remained.

Yet from this dismal graveyard of southern Fangorn, the howl had sounded. Not the familiar song of greeting, although the woman and her companions recognized the singer well enough, but the warrior's howl of vengeance rose from the deadened forest. Tasana had never heard so bitter a note of betrayal in that voice before, even when it bayed of orcs. Oddly enough, she had heard none of the southern Wargs' ancient enemies' bellows of challenge, horns, or war drums beating in return.

Chev'yahna gave a traditional return howl, promising support against a common enemy, but Roliran cut her off with a push against her body. Keeping a paw on her calf to keep her from rising too quickly, he snuffed the air suggestively. Tasana joined him, and had to admit that something besides the forest smelled wrong to the woods woman. The trace of blood in the air was similar to that of a perilous hunt, with the stink of orc blending with Warg saliva. The two opposing creatures had not left any sign of a battle, save the holocaust of the woodlands.

"What happened?" she asked. The beta, never much for extraneous conversation, simply raised his hackles. Roliran was not the only one on edge. His smaller brother laid his ears back as well, his tail hanging limply beneath him. Only Gonaki seemed assured of himself. Chuffing softly in reassurance, the black alpha stood between his sons and waited for the howler to approach.

Sahnchanc was as regal as ever, his silver and sable coat immaculate and shining. The rain had appeared not to have touched him; there was barely even any mud upon his paws. Following him, as if to provide a foil to the alpha Warg, was something that Tasana first thought to be a deformed bear. Shaggy particolored brown fur formed an uneven mane extending down the creature's back. Piggish, deep-set black eyes stared myopically at her from behind a short muzzle, overfilled with teeth. A large set of forequarters made its gait pigeon-toed and uneven. Its tail was little more than a ragged continuation of the ridge of soaked fur upon its back.

Moving at a leisurely walk, Sahnchanc turned occasionally to look at this unnatural beast with something resembling fatherly pride. He considered his elder black brother condescendingly, not even affording Tasana and the younger wolves a glance. "I have found the Balancer," he stated without premable. While wolves tended to be direct, most brother alphas shared some greeting ritual to reaffirm the bonds between their packs. Gonaki appeared not to notice this insult, though Roliran stiffened even more, if it were possible. Wirsankor slunk to his father's flank, rubbing his head against Gonaki's shoulder as if to remind Sahnchanc of his forgotten duty. The black Warg returned the gesture, pausing with his head atop his smaller son to see if any others would join in. Tasana reached for his ears, but Roliran circled between woman and Sekrahc and the healer thought better of it. When Sahnchanc did not join him, nor did any other members of his pack appear, Gonaki flicked an irritated ear at his brother, gesturing for him to continue. Upset at his brother's blasé acceptance of what should be an earth-shattering announcement, the gray and black alpha said again, "I have found the Balancer, the one who reunite the Wargs with the elves. But they are our overbearing masters no longer! They have been changed and hardened; adapted to suit our new world order. So have my Wargs, by the generosity of the great Balancer, Saruman." Sahnchanc lifted his head, bristling to look even larger than usual, if possible. Tasana realized that this beast behind him merited fatherly pride, in Sahnchanc's eyes, for he was more than likely its sire. The healer had trouble connecting the two as relations, for the mutant Warg bore little resemblance to his lordly Sekrahc.

Roliran's raised hackles were copied by this mad excuse for a wolf. Despite its short muzzle, the beast hardly looked like anything a sane Warg would willingly confront. The healer could not decide who was madder at this point: Gonaki for bringing them here, or she and the younger wolves for following him. There was little doubt about Sahnchanc's sanity. It was obviously long gone.

His brother ignored this posturing, letting mottled tongue loll out in a laconic laugh. "Shanchanc, the white zwiero is no Balancer. I know the Balancer well. I am he. My pups are the Balancers. So is my mate. Any Warg or zwiero willing to think about the other people's situation is a Balancer. For a long time, I thought you were. Fifty years ago, when we were but yearlings, you were the one to speak in favor of mercy for the intruding humans. It was your call to mercy that inspired my own, many years later. I have found my peace in it." Moving past a circling Roliran, Gonaki leaned slightly into Tasana, giving her a beat across the legs with his thick tail. He had made no mention of the help she had given him to earn his mercy, but this was more affection than the old Warg usually displayed.

"You have eaten humans. You know them to be only so much flesh, Gonaki," the sliver brother rejoined. This fact had never come up around the healer before, though Chev'yahna had always suspected it at a gut level. The black wolf and his mate knew all too much about the Dunedain clans before Tasana had explained what she knew about them.

Gonaki did not bother to deny it. His unruffled acceptance of this accusation frightened the woman, but not merely for what harm might come to her. Whatever the Warg's former eating habits had been, they had changed, but his temper had not. If Gonaki accepted all of this without a sign of anger, than the alpha was planning something very deadly, indeed. Normally, if something small upset him, the offending wolf would find his teeth at its throat in a matter of seconds, and if it apologized, a caring, playful leader would return in a matter of minutes. Only when someone truly touched a nerve did Gonaki become so coolly predatory. He was no longer viewing his brother as a fellow Warg, Tasana realized, but as talking prey; prey he wished to have a bit of fun with before destroying. Gonaki could make a cat look kind in this mood. "They don't taste as good as what they can catch, although I'd imagine orcs are the same. I've simply never seen an orc catch anything worth eating. Look at you, my brother. You loved your freedom, and here you have handed it away to the beings you once despised most in the world. I have seen hounds of men that live better than you."

At this, Shanchanc raised his lip. "And how do you live, hound of men?"

"Dear Sahnchanc, so easily confused," Gonaki laughed. He paced an unseen, unofficially acknowledged boundary line with a playful, rolling strut. At any moment, that swagger could turn into a charge, but Sahnchanc refused to be intimidated by his elder, heavier black brother. "Chev'yahna is my pet. She comes at my call, and runs at my mate's command. She fetches us men's claws, and the deadly raven-sticks of the elves. Real elves, not some mudborn bastard curs. I wouldn't be surprised if those things have as much wolf blood in them as elven. Little wolves, like your pack. Really, at times, I am ashamed to admit we are brothers."

At this fresh insult, Sahnchanc's malformed seed leapt at the supercilious alpha. Two gray blurs of fur, teeth, and muscle intercepted him, throwing the brute off balance. Its large forelegs made swipes and leaps dangerous, but even Wirsankor seemed designed for running compared to the beast. Gonaki's sons were able to outmanuver Saruman's creation, but its thick fur prevented them from sinking their teeth into it. Sahnchanc and Gonaki circled the fight; their anger beyond words now. Yellowed teeth glistened with saliva. Blood stained the fighters' coats. Shanchanc crouched for a spring.

Tasana knew the methods of fighting wolves. While younger members of the pack were generally more likely to get involved with an intra-pack battle than their more dominant elders, it was these elder, more experienced Wargs who determined whether such a fight would be a personal grudge or an all out war between packs. Alphas could hold no personal grudges. Warily, the human drew her sword, doing her best to dodge vicious snaps from friend and foe alike. She had a much longer reach than any of the Wargs' crushing jaws, but she was by no means faster. If Roliran, all but foaming in a blood frenzy, or Wirsankor, who shared her weight disadvantage but lacked much compensation, bumped into her, she'd likely end up on the ground, under the heavy frame of the mad mutated Warg. Extra reach did not matter when one's arms were pinnioned and one's throat exposed. Sahnchanc would not accept such a simple apology at this point. Not without making the position permanent. Tasana's heart pounded as the brother alphas began to attack one another viciously. The silver wolf had raked his teeth down Gonaki's old sword wound, opening the black brother's shoulder. Wirsankor had gotten some hold upon the beast's throat, clinging stubbornly as the long-toothed bear of a Warg shook him like a pendulum. It would have likely taken the small wolf's body into its mouth and broken his back, if it weren't being hassled by Roliran's guerrila tactics and Tasana's scimitar. Dodging the swinging Warg, Tasana managed to cut past the monster's thick ruff of protective guard hair. _So it does bleed_, Chev'yahna noted. Paying too much attention to his son, however, the woods woman had failed to watch out for Sahnchanc.

While Gonaki was customarily the stronger of the two brothers, things had changed since his last trip to the Isen. Like Legolas's arrow, the silver Warg had shaken Gonaki's attacks right off. The loss of blood had made the alpha weak, and his black-caped brother was more than willing to finish him off. Gonaki had done the only thing he could have in that situation: he ran, stumbling, leaving a trail of gushing blood behind him. Saving him for later, Shanchanc had moved to incapacitate his other enemies. He landed upon Tasana's back, sending her scimitar flying. Roliran, for all the speed he had been named for, could not handle both these enemies at once. The healer could feel the hot breath of a Warg upon her back. "I thought you were the Balancer once." Drool landed upon the back of her neck. "Yet you serve him. You always did." A desperate whine sounded, and then died off in a gurgle. There was the sound of something snapping and a heavy thud as a body dropped to the burnt forest floor. "Goodbye, zwiero." He was almost loving in the way he took her neck into his mouth, savoring the scream she let loose as his teeth made their indentations. She knew there was no way out of this, and yet her animal hindbrain could not accept death so passively. Strangely, though, she felt his viselike jaws release her, yelping in surprise.

* * *

Glossary: 

Balancer- a figure of Wargish myth who shall reunite the elves and Wargs

Sekrahc- alpha male

Zwiero- bipedals, ie, elves, orcs, etc.

Cliffhanger – an author's cop-out from writing another three pages, which usually results in flames. Burn, baby, burn!


	30. Customs of the Hunters

A/N: Not mine. Sorry it takes so long. Thanks to BoromirDefender for betaing.

And on a personal note, since I know I won't get a chapter together in time, "Wargs" is almost two! It was first published at TORC on February 26th, 2003. The day of Boromir's death and the Breaking of the Fellowship, according to the appendicies. Draw your own literary conclusions.

For an explaination of Wargish customs that are purposefully unclear in the story, see the glossary.

* * *

Teeth bit deeply into human flesh. Wild swings were useless now. Any movement would be counterproductive towards stopping the pain. Bleeding fingers grasped desperately at tightly gripping jaws, but the sharp fangs refused to slacken. Whimpering, the wounded human pleaded to the alpha for assistance, but there was none forthcoming.

"Your pups will too." Valenska warned him, redirecting the week-old attacker to its resting mother.

"Perhaps, but dogs are not born with teeth!" Boromir sucked upon his bleeding finger.

Valenska looked at him curiously, tilting her head as if she did not understand what this response had to do with her statement. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with it, from the way she understood it. The young black wolf's grasp on basic Westron was rather tenuous at times, and Boromir's Wargish was even worse. He needed her to translate for the rest of the pack, even for those whose understanding of his language outstripped hers, for Mithilira's throaty rumble was too hard for him to understand. Because of this dependence, Valenska had been appointed his shadow, remaining at his side as long as he was awake. Since the birth of the pups, Mithilira had taken advantage of Boromir's relatively restricted movement to assign the pair sitting duty.

Boromir refused to think that he had been brought here because he was nearly as weak as the pups, but instead threw himself into learning the care and feeding of young wolves. Unfortunately, anything in their den was considered fair game for some of the Wargs' eating. Boromir had had to prise a pup or two from Valenska and Mithilira's ears as well.

Despite this, he had to admit that he found the rabid little fuzzballs rather cute. They did not coddle him as if he could not stand up on his own. True, he was still a bit shaky from the blood loss and lack of exercise during his recent recovery period, but the dizziness that had accompanied even the slowest rise in elevation of his head had passed now. The pups were barely aware of anything outside of their mother and the small amounts of meat they were being fed. When one crawled up into his lap, it was because it wanted attention, not because of some misguided desire to reassure him that Tasana would be coming back. From Mithilira's pitying stares to Valenska's mysterious comments concerning his future "pups," the grown wolves were beginning to upset him. Certainly, he was lonely, but who would not be, when lying weakened amongst wild beasts when his family and city stood at the brink of war, his friends chased after an army, and his beloved was surely walking into the teeth of a trap?

"Have you chosen names for these murderers yet?" he asked Mithilira, attempting to distract himself from such gloomy thoughts. Surely, Valenska could not mean what Boromir thought she did. He and Chev'yahna had not even lain naked together, at least as far as his rarely unfevered conscious memory served. The little she-Warg was overreacting. It was hard enough knowing that he had let Tasana go to Isengard without thinking of what else he might have let out of his life.

It was a full-grown Warg that delivered the next bite to his arm. Mithilira growled, and a startled Valenska translated: "It not wise to name before pups stand under sun. T'sheckna hears all, no T'seer." Boromir bit back a yelp, bowing his head as Chev'yahna had taught him.

"My apologies," he said, and Mithilira released his arm. Unlike her pup, she had not drawn blood, but the warrior was fairly certain that he would have indentations from wolf teeth for months to come. "I did not realize. You consider it unlucky to name pups before they are out of the den, then?" he tried to rub some of the lifeblood back into his arm, reminding himself to never again try to make conversation with a recently pregnant mother with teeth.

"Aye," Valenska dropped her head in an affirmative bow, snorting to show her amused surprise at his ignorance. "Unlucky we in here, but Chev'yahna changed it. Zwiero yahn pups. She help pups, you help pups now." Valenska tried to explain, but Boromir gave up. So long as the alpha female was not about to bite him again, better to let her rest than rile her any further by asking just what the black wolf meant.

Pushing another explorer off his lap, Boromir stood, mindful of underfoot wolves. "I'm going out for a bit," he announced to Valenska. With Mithilira drowsing off, it was best that at least one of them kept an eye on the pups. He knew he was being callous and self-centered to leave his guardian to the curious young pups, but he needed to get out of the den and away from the wolves for awhile. He needed to walk by himself, just to reassure himself that he still could.

Valenska raised her ruff in annoyance at his fit of pique, but otherwise made no comment. Both knew that he would not get very far before he became too dizzy and tired to walk any further. Today, though, Boromir would go as far as he possibly could.

He did not know how Tasana stood the pack at times. They treated him well enough, using their northernmost den this year to keep from having to move the wounded man in their company, but that smug look in even the yearlings' eyes was hardly what Boromir wanted to deal with every day. Valenska shadowed him like a sheepdog minding a lamb, Mithilira seemed to think of him as a poor, untrained substitute for Chev'yahna, the one-eyed wolf from Mordor occasionally "forgot" that they were fighting on the same side, and most of the others avoided him entirely, watching from a distance with the superiorty of a healthy hunter surveying a foreign cripple. He supposed he should count himself lucky that only the pups and their moody mother had bitten him so far. The rational part of his mind had something to say on this subject. The part that listened to Faramir and counted orcs before he attacked and even reminded him of such things as what would likely happen if he had taken the Ring wanted to tell him, in a distressed, exhausted tone, that Boromir was being a bloody ungrateful bugger, and simply complaining about his care under the Wargs because the alternative thoughts were worse.

What Boromir wanted was a fast horse to Minas Tirith. Once he had gotten there, and reported the tidings of this very long journey home to his father, he would take a fair-sized company of warriors to Isengard, wipe up that threat to his lover and his city, bring Chev'yahna home, and wed her. Then, if the council's plans had fallen astray, it would be a simple matter to clean up Mordor. The warrior amused himself with childish fantasies of spitting in the Great Eye and slaying the Nazgul as he continued his slow, unsteady walk. Whilst he was wishing, why not imagine himself an all-powerful hero? It was as likely a scenario as finding transportation home amidst this pack, and there were no rings here that could turn the dream into a nightmarish reality.

Boromir leaned against a tree, catching his breath as a spell of lightheadedness passed. There, carelessly abandoned, was part of his old horn, dropped and trodden on in the midst of his fight with the orcs. How else might he get home? He could not walk the whole way there with this weakness. The Wargs would watch him, and make sure he came to no harm, but none of them were willing to leave their territory while their alpha female was interred in the den with her pups and her mate and their beta wandered forests unknown. He could hardly whistle up a horse in ordinary circumstances, much less in Warg lands. He counted himself a passible equestrian, but Faramir was certainly the better rider of the two brothers. The elder son of the steward had no intentions of letting his brother know of the mount he had lost on the way to Rivendell. Faramir would not let him live it down, even if Boromir had physical proof that he had been stalked the whole way to the elven home.

He knelt, picking up the remnant of his old life and running his hands along the horn's smashed, jagged bell. Home. The word brought the warrior back to his feet and staggering further south of the den. He would make it further today. Valenska would drag him back to the den, dead tired and unable to stand on his own, but he had gone one step closer Minas Tirth today. A step closer to strength, and to home.

* * *

He sunk thankfully onto the solid ground. It was too much; no one was meant to live like this. Still, at least with the worst of the marsh scent out of his nose, Samwise could breath freely, so long as the Nazgul didn't return. Gollum still kept to the shadows, only willing to travel after moonset, or when the rolling black clouds gave no sign of parting. During the day, they would take shelter under the brackish vegetation and low overhangs of rock. Both plant life that did not appear to have originated from sewage and rocks that neither sunk under the hobbit's weight nor cut his feet were very welcome in Sam's world. From the marshlands, the environs had slowly dried into scrub forest, not dissimilar to that beyond Moria, or even some of the untilled land in the Shire. The southern woods appeared to have more of an understory, though, due to the warmer clime and plentiful moisture from the swamps. Tangled undergrowth was as difficult to walk through as the maze of rocks in Emyn Muil or fire-lit swampground, but its resemblance to happier places made Sam feel as if the bushes were protecting him by offering cover, rather than simply delaying them on their quest. Feeling safer in this shelter and nearly comfortable despite his weariness, Sam rolled over to drift off to sleep.

It did not last long. While he was not as paraniod as Gollum, nor as rightfully nervous as his best friend, Sam's nerves had been frayed over the trip, and the whispered mutterings of their guide had grown loud enough to wake him from his troubled sleep. A sibliant voice rose and fell as if embroilled in an argument, although the hobbit could not hear the other side of it. Worried that Frodo might be on the other end, Sam crept closer, trying to make out the hissed words that cracked in fear and anger.

"We cannot, precious! He will find us!" The voice, still hissing and frightened, took on a subtly different tone, arguing, "But we promised we would. He is nice to us, so we musst help nice Masster."

The first voice, which Sam mentally labelled "Slinker," returned. "Master cannot stop him. None can stop his eye." The hobbit edged closer, his curiousity primed at the sight of Gollum debating with himself via his reflection in a cloudy puddle. "You will lead all to death," he croaked, and then a sudden mask of horror flooded over the sunken features. "Masster iss doomed and the preciouss will be losst." The skeletal being's voice grew more sibliant as he spiraled deeper into paranoia. Sam could barely make out the creature's next words, much less keep track of the differences in the voices as the beast continued to gibber. "No… protect masster… it'ss ourss! But we sswears… We sswearss to find it! Go away!" The last was uttered with such ferocity that Sam heard Frodo grunt in response, crushing branches as he pulled unconsciously away from the strident command.

"Masster protects uss now; we don't need you anymore. Go away." "Stinker," the subservient one, had emerged triumphant from Gollum's inner monologue. Although the strange little creature was still wild-eyed, his bony spine stood straighter, and his yellow eyes were sparkling in the clouded moonlight with a righetous pride, as if he had driven off a great foe. From Sam's impressions of Gollum, the hobbit believed that he had. Self-mastery would be a difficult path for the maddened being, and to see even one piece of Gollum cornered, captured, and brought to heel did Samwise's heart good. The young hobbit simply wished he could do the same physically to the skeletal murderer. Although he grudgingly admitted that the beast had not yet led them astray, he did not believe that this situation would continue all the way to Mordor. Gollum would snap, sooner or later, and Sam wanted to have the upper hand when it happened. Uneasily, the hobbit watched the bony shadow submerge into the bracken, and vowed to keep a close watch upon it. But such a watch would have to wait. He could not keep his eyes open any longer tonight.

The trees soon outgrew the underbrush as the hobbits continued their journey the next day. Wildflowers bloomed in clearings, and wended their way up branching, twisted trunks in vines and creepers. Sam recognized a few of his favorite herbs growing wild under the trees. "Look, Mr. Frodo, sage and nutmeg! With a little of the salt I packed, and some sort of meat, we'll at least manage a good dinner out here."

"You brought salt, Sam?" A weary smile passed over Frodo's face. "All the way out here?" "Well, you never know when it might come in handy. Plus, it keeps the potatoes nice and tasty." The younger hobbit explained bashfully, picking selections of the herbs to add to his small box of salt and gigantic backpack.

"Potatoes?" Frodo's eyes opened widely. "Sam, you are magnificent! But how do you carry it all?"

Sam blushed. "Aw, it's nothin'. What I'm carrying lightens my heart, 'cause I know it'll cheer us up as we go further from home. You've gotten stuck with the bigger burden in my opinion, if you don't mind me sayin' so, sir."

"What iss potatoes, precious?" Gollum inquired from his lookout within the overhanging trees. Samwise didn't like him up there. While it was easy for the little stinker to look down on him and Frodo, Sam could barely make him out amongst the branches that were as skinny and sharp-angled as the frog-eyed creature's limbs.

"Why don't you go find us a nice rabbit or two for dinner sometime, Gollum, and I may let you taste the best thing you've ever eaten in your miserable life," Sam said, feeling generous.

"Be nice," the elder hobbit chided him.

"But I am," Sam protested. "So what do you say, Gollum? Willing to share a meal with us?"

"Asss long asss it'ss not nassty elven bread," Smeagol spat. Frodo had attempted to feed their guide from his store of travelling lembas, but the creature had reacted as badly to the food as he had to the rope they had tied him with. This was further proof in Sam's eyes that Gollum should be rightfully condemned.

"It won't be. Just see if you can't find us some meat," Sam promised.

"Nice Smeagol always helps," the creature insisted, disappearing deeper into the woods.

Sam set his pack down, the hanging pots clattering off one another. "You may as well get some rest. There's no telling how long he'll be gone. I'll start a fire, and we'll have boiled taters for dinner, at least."

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo smiled wanly, gripping his friend's arm. "Thank you for everything."

"It weren't nothing." Sam could not help but return his best friend's smile. Such things were all too rare on this journey.

Frodo had dozed off by the time Gollum returned. The long-limbed creature hummed tunelessly to itself through a mouthful of rabbit. Another coney dangled from its hand. "Nice Smeagol brought juicy rabbitses for Master," he annouced brightly, dumping a carcass in Sam's hands. The younger hobbit hefted it carefully, and deciding that it would do, pulled out his knife to skin it. Gollum looked at him askance, cracking the neck of the other rabbit and biting into the meat without worrying with the fur and skin. "What's it doing?" he asked through the mouthful, yellow eyes large and curious.

"Eatin' without makin' everyone else sick. Give that here, and I'll make you a proper stew." Sam handled the partially eaten carcass with no little trace of disgust.

Gollum slunk out of the hobbit's reach, but considered Sam's cullinary preparations with inquisitive condescension. "Why does it burn tasty rabbitses? They is good without nassty potatoes." The frog-eyed guide muttered.

"I don't know why I bother with you. You're as bad as Mistress Chev'yahna's Wargs, you are. At least those beasts don't complain about my cookin'. And I'm not burnin' them." Samwise shook his ladle at his crouching critic. A thick steam had begun to rise from the pot, along with the smell of cooking meat.

Frodo began to move around in his sleep, a small smile upon his lips. "Sam?" he spoke at last, rising from his sleeping place amongst the brush. "It smells delicious."

"I hope it will be," Sam replied, spooning a generous helping into a bowl and passing it to Frodo.

Gollum took this opportunity to dip a skeletal finger into the bubbling pot for an experimental taste. He shrieked from the heat, placing long fingers into his thin-lipped mouth. "It burnss uss! The fat one tries to kill us!"

"Serves you right, you greedy little sneak. Wait your turn and I'll serve you a bowl," Sam considered bringing the ladle down upon the burnt hand, but decided to take pity on the wastrel for once. He had gotten his due reward.

"We don't wants it," Gollum spoke around his fingers. "Keep your nassty potatoes. We likes our food raw and wriggling."

"Suit yourself," Sam replied, serving himself a bowlful. He made a show of turning his back to the bony creature and enjoying the stew. It was pretty good, Sam decided, even if he said so himself. Frodo seemed to enjoy it, too, digging in without a word spoken. For a moment, Sam could take pleasure in the kinder side of the scrub forest. He had all but forgotten its dark side as the steam of the stewpot rose like a spirit into the clouded sky.

* * *

Glossary:

T'scheckna- Wargish goddess of Death, lit. Murderess

T'seer- Blessed Ravens; according to Wargish mythos, they hear the names of new pack members and report them to the Mistress, the main goddess of the Wargish religion. In this way, they may bring the wargs to Nyrasgam, heaven, after death and keep them from T'scheckna. As Wargs have a high infant mortality rate, it has become traditional to avoid naming pups before they leave the den, in hopes that T'scheckna will not come for them.

Yahn – lucky, helpful for from the root ahn, trouble, and the prefix y', un-

Zwiero – two legged beings, here: humans


	31. The Heart of a Warrior

A/N: I own nothing. Once again, apologies that this is so slow, but I feel I finally have a better grip on certain characters that were giving me trouble, so updates may proceed a bit faster now, (or at least after finals.)

* * *

"What else would you have me do?" Theoden had recovered quickly from his stupor with the banishment of his treacherous advisor, but negotiations were not going as well as Gandalf might have hoped. The King of Rohan was determined to make up for lost time and protect his people, but the wizard was unsure of the king's methods.

Theoden planned to vacate the city of Edoras, moving all he could to Helm's Deep, an ancient fortress. A fortress, Gandalf recalled chillingly, with one entrance. If things went wrong, there would be but one exit, and no escape.

And yet, Theoden was correct. What else could they do? The majority of Rohan's army had been scattered or exiled during Grima's seizure of power. Gondor could not afford to send aid. It would be best to secure what safety they could find for the people now. And yet, all would be useless if they could not summon the army. Only a few trustworthy guards had been left in the prisons. They were not nearly enough to protect the city from orc raids. With so few guards at the tightly packed fortress, they might only be making Sauron's job easier.

"Send for aid," the Dunedain recommended stubbornly. "Gondor will remember her old ally. If nothing else, send a runner to Eomer and his troops. I know they ride to protect what they can out there in the grasslands. They would welcome the chance to return home and defend their families."

"Whom shall I send?" Theoden gestured about the great hall, all but abandoned as Grima's ruffians were locked away and those still loyal to the king had begun hastily packing up their families and possessions for the migration to Helm's Deep.

"I would ride for them," the golden-haired woman at his side spoke up. The younger fellowship members exchanged glances. It was not unheard of for the women of Rohan to ride under dangerous circumstances, even unto battle, but this slim girl clothed in white hardly looked like a shield-maiden. For all her steely gazes and strength of frame, there was a certain brittleness to her emotions that made Aragorn fear for her chances in pitched battle. He had seen fighters, good ones, of both sexes, that could not control their tempers when the enemy charged. In their rush to prove themselves worthy, they proved the first casualties of the confrontation.

"No, Eowyn," Theoden said with finality. "I do not doubt your courage, but I have already lost my son. I know not what might happen to you or your brother out in the wolf-plains. Eomer shall return in his own time, and draw our enemies away from our people. You and I will protect them as long as we can. If I – " he paused, his speech hushed. "If I am unable to lead, you will take care of our people until your brother returns."

"You shall lead us for a long time yet, Uncle," she returned softly. There was a streak of defiance in her eyes, but she seemed to understand Theoden's reasoning, both said and unsaid. For him, she would endure her self-made cage of meaninglessness.

Theoden nodded, as if to escape an awkward situation with a return to the grim topic at hand. "There are none that I would risk, for their sakes and that of my people, to ride out there alone. And to send to Gondor? Gondor has been sending for our warriors when we can spare them, since the time of my father. They hold their border, but they have none that they can send to us. 'Twould be as mad as wandering the wolf-plains in search of exiled riders." He continued with bitter irony.

"Your men will not have abandoned you," Gandalf reassured him.

"Aye, perhaps not. But under Wormtongue's influence, I abandoned them. They're scattered, ripe pickings for Saruman's foul creations." The anger in the king's voice was directed inwards, but caught up in the emotional undercurrents, his niece turned her frustration loose. Her knuckles white against the dark wood of the council table, the pale-haired woman seemed to be kept in her seat merely by virtue of the furniture's solid build.

"They shall not be forgotten again." Her expression dared anyone to contradict her.

"They shall not," Theoden repeated, silent worry evident upon his features.

"Your nephew has amassed a fair number of men, my lord," Aragorn said. "It may not be so fruitless an endeavor as you perceive. And our gallant Lady Eowyn is not the only one who would willingly ride to find your defenders." Slightly ameliorated by his diplomatic words, the lady gave him a small smile.

"None of us has a particularly fast horse right now, I hope you notice." Gimli did not sound entirely displeased with this state of affairs. The pipe between his teeth sputtered out, and the dwarf paused to relight it before continuing. "While it would be wise to get more men, better indeed to have some good stone walls to defend ourselves with. Not everyone here is trained to fight, I take it."

"Nay," Theoden looked mollified to hear some common sense out of the dwarf. "The women and children gather in the capital, and those refugees from the razed villages seek haven, not a battle. I would keep them safe, though from your words we may have a battle regardless. I do not wish any further hardship upon our ladies and younglings, if it can be prevented."

"If you shall excuse me, my lords," Eowyn's voice was cold, indignant, straining against her uncle's unspoken overprotection. "I must pack for the journey." Rising sharply, she nodded briefly to the assembled council and turned to go, grey-blue eyes flashing with rebellion as if towards the Dark Lord and death itself.

"I fear for my people," Theoden said softly, following his niece's stiff back as she retreated from the hall.

"They shall find hope yet, your majesty," Gandalf assured him. Now was the time to make compromises. "Ride for Helm's Deep, if you feel safer there, and I shall meet you in four days."

Gimli choked upon his pipe. "You're leaving, Gandalf? But you just got back to us."

"I will return shortly enough," Gandalf replied, placing a hand upon the blocky shoulder. "I trust you three to prove more help than harm to Theoden King."

"I'll keep the dwarf in line," Legolas promised teasingly, although a flicker of unease had passed across the archer's face as well.

His shorter friend snorted. "Perhaps, but then who shall watch you, Master Elf?"

"I trust Aragorn can manage." The ranger nodded at the wizard's words, but both men retained a nervous air. Memories of Moria hung unspoken between them, and thoughts of how easily they might be trapped once more in the dark, with no way out but death. Saruman's orcs would not be held back to a few small raiding parties if all their targets were gathered in one spot.

Yet, Theoden was right. There was nowhere else for them to take shelter. Gandalf hoped that Shadowfax could speed him and the army to Helm's Deep in time.

* * *

Once again, the ents surprised Merry with their rate of speed. With proof of the destruction before their eyes, it had not taken Quickbeam long to convince his elders to join up against Isengard. The tower loomed before them, rushing closer and closer. And yet, whenever he glanced back, Merry couldn't convince himself that they had yet made much progress out of the woods. They had passed the same trees three times, a part of him insisted. And yet, here they were, nearly upon the walls surrounding the wizard's stronghold. A strange mystery it seemed, and yet, as Treebeard bellowed a challenge that shook the branches of the surrounding forest, the answer suddenly seemed as plain to Merry as the nose upon his face.

Tree-shepherds. Yet, surely that didn't mean that they could make the trees move like that, could they? Merry could see them influencing the trees' growth, but he had never imagined that they could convince the trees to move down the hills. And not just normal trees, either. Looking more closely, Merry could make out the roots of a nearby elm undulating in the forest gloom. Huorons, Treebeard had called them. Thinking trees, malevolent ents that no longer moved so much. After his earlier encounter with the willow, whose roots had lulled him to sleep and then constricted around him, Merriadoc had no wish to see these huorons' work close up.

It was too late to back out now, however. They had reached the gates of Isengard, and a tall, knotty ent lifted them from their moorings and hurled them at the tower as if they weighed nothing. From the fiery pits, orcs and Wargs swarmed towards the trees, but ents stomped them or flung them aside before they could cause much harm. Merry felt removed from the battle, in his perch atop Quickbeam. The last time he had fought orcs, the hobbit had been terrified and disoriented, losing Boromir and then captured. This would not happen again. They would not be captured here, nor would they see another friend lost in battle. From this height, his tiny sword would do him little good, but within his pockets, the hobbit found some stones and a rope from a snare from rabbit hunting. He and his cousin had always been good shots with slings or throwing stones, and Merry began to put those skills to work from Quickbeam's shoulders. Whenever an orc approached with a brand, one of the hobbits would bean it to save the trees. Once the torches had guttered out, the marching forest advanced further towards the tower. Unfortunately, the hobbits' supply of ammunition for their slings was severely limited. In his haste, Pippin snapped a twig from Quickbeam and threw it at the orcs. The ent shook his head irritatedly. "Mind yourselves, little hobbit friends. I would not want you to get hurt."

"Sorry, Quickbeam," Pippin apologized. "We're all out of throwing stones. I don't suppose there's some place that we could refill?"

"No," the ent said shortly. He was not at the forefront of the battle, but he had stomped his share of orcs form his position at the rear of the marching ents and huorons. "You have done your duty, and then some, but now you must simply hang on and let us do ours." Merry wrapped his arms about the branching shoulder, watching as another ent caught fire. The tree-sheppards might not speak unless something was extremely important, but sometimes there were no words for what you wanted to say. He was small, he was fallible and lacked the stamina of larger warriors, but the hobbit had felt that he had made a difference with Quickbeam there to help him. Even at Amon Hen, he and Pippin had held off their captors until Boromir finally succumbed to his wounds.

Merriadoc had learned a few things from Boromir. The basics of swordfighting, the Song of the Seagull, and just how Faramir liked his tea were all very nice to know, and might come in handy someday, but the most important lesson was not one that Boromir had told them. He had shown by his example that one should never stop fighting while your friends were counting on you. Merry wasn't sure how he could do that while sitting in the treetops, completely out of ammunition, but if he got the chance, he would find some way to help the ents.

"Quickbeam, look out!" Pippin shouted. The ent ducked as a fiery projectile from a catapult blasted overhead, making Merry very thankful for his tight grip. A few embers crackled in his upper branches, but the hobbits moved to beat them out as soon as the ent righted himself.

"Everyone all right?" the young ent asked shakily. The hobbits' replies were just as unsteady, but neither had been seriously hurt. "You were quick to put out my fires, young hobbits, but now we must put out the rest. Hold steady."

"We're trying to," Merry said. The ent boomed out a cry of his own, striding towards the dammed Isen River. His fist did not break through the stone wall as old Treebeard's had, but the fault was enough to give the water pressure an outlet. The river shot hard out of the dam, flowing nearly horizontal at first. More cracks appeared in the stone wall. "We ought to move," Merry said, awed at the force of the water.

"This way!" Pippin tugged upon his branchy limb, pulling the ent perpendicular to the water's flow. Quickbeam moved as fast as possible, but the powerful current knocked his feet out from under him.

"Merry? Pippin? Where are you?" the ent called. They, too had lost their footing, and now the river took them where it pleased. Although they had suffered a few knocks and bruises, Merry had caught ahold of his cousin's hand. Wherever they went, he would have a friend with him.

"What's this?" Pippin coughed up the water that had gotten into his lungs and threw his other arm about a washed-up crate. "Old Toby," it was labeled. Apparently the river had decided to be kind, for once. At last finding purchase for their soaked feet in a slow-moving eddy that was as deep as their waists, the two hobbits took stock of their surroundings. The fiery pits of Isengard had been flooded, and ents and huorons moved more calmly throughout the wreckage. And around them floated a nicotine-addict's dream: pipeweed crates and apples bobbed across the surface of the flooded tower's grounds.

"Should we tell Treebeard about all this?" Merry asked, a devilish light in his eyes.

"No, they're probably relations. He wouldn't understand." Pippin's smile was every bit as mischievous as his cousin's.

"Well, it's only right that we get rid of it then, before he suffers any more worries."

"Quite right. Where's my pipe?" Pippin's hunt was cut off though, as large feet splashed up behind them. Woody hands lifted them into the air.

"There you are!" Quickbeam gave the pair a yellow-eyed smile. "I was worried for your safety when you two were washed away by the river. Who knows what could have happened to you in that flood with all these orcs about?"

"The tree-burning, branch-breaking, forest-spoiling orcs shall not be much of a problem any more, nor will their wood-gnawing, deep-digging, mad-looking Wargs. Huroom, but these two little hole-dwelling hobbits could have hit something hard in the riptides." Treebeard said seriously, but he too, seemed very relieved to have them safe. With both ents returning to their typical long-winded, rambling patterns of speech, Merry could only believe that their victory was complete. "Young Saruman is locked in his tower. We shall, hroom, speak with him shortly. Root and twig, but he shall have much to answer for!"

"I'm simply glad we did not have to add the hobbits to that list of things to speak to him about," Quickbeam returned, setting the hobbits back down.

"I had Pip with me, and I knew you wouldn't let me float too far on my own." Merry stretched his arms as far as he could about the ent's leg. "That's what friends are for."


	32. Edge of the War Zone

A/N: It's all Tolkien's. What was that about being able to update faster during the summer? It was research for this fic, I swear… Or, at least, that's how it started out. Unfortunately, my minor character muses love to steal bunnies, and it's easy to distract them. Ooh, Denethor's sisters! Shiny…

Also, I ought to warn you that this is a Warg-centric chapter and all that implies: hard PG sex'n'violence. Okay, no sex. (Yet.) Thank you for your reviews!

* * *

She dared not raise her head, fearing what it might come in contact with. Her arms flew up to guard her neck, and she pulled into a fetal position to avoid as many stray bites as possible. Surprisingly, there was no weight upon her back; nothing to keep her pinioned. The growls faded, and she felt a wet muzzle, still warm with lifeblood, nudge her arm. "Chev'yahna," a familiar voice called to her. "The hunt is finished."

Reluctantly, she pulled herself up into a seated position. Three wolves, fur clotted and blackened with drying blood, stood before her. Wirsankor heavily favored his left rear leg, and Roliran had accumulated a new set of scars about his ears and muzzle, as well as a few minor wounds along his neck and chest. The third Warg Tasana did not recognize. Small, brown, and possessing a certain youthful arrogance that could eventually develop into real charisma, the yearling momentarily made her think of the missing Gaundalan. He licked self-consciously at the blood upon his muzzle, bowing before the elder, more powerful brothers once the beta fixed the yearling newcomer with a stern look. Tasana buried her fingers gratefully into Wirsankor's coarse fur, running a hand lightly over his injured leg. It did not feel broken, although it was possible that the short wolf had pulled a tendon in his desperate attempts to avoid the mutated Warg's broad jaws. "What of Gonaki?" she asked. Two corpses lay before her, and none of the wolves had begun to dig into them.

Roliran studied the crows that circled above the kills, unsure if he ought to drive the birds off completely. It was considered bad luck to do so, but the beta was willing to risk the future displeasure of the Wargish gods' messengers if it meant denying a traitor an honorable death. "His blood goes this way," Roliran said, pointing out the scent trail with a nod of his head. The black alpha had left so much blood on the ground that surely even a nose-blind zwiero should be able to pick up the traces. Still, blood was everywhere, and almost all of it belonged to his kin.

To think that his father's brother would prove a traitor was more than Roliran wanted to consider right now. His own younger brother, with the woman's fingers still entangled in the short wolf's ruff, walked over to the uneasy older wolf, rubbing beneath Roliran's bloodied and bleeding jaw. Roliran assumed a dominant posture out of fearful habit, but he understood and recognized Wirsankor's sudden urge to reaffirm his loyalty. If their father were dead, Roliran was the most likely to take over the alpha position. Wirsankor apparently wished to reassure him that this little brother's loyalty, at least, was without question. Sahnchanc's madness would not happen again, the larger gray Warg swore, so long as Roliran had teeth to fight it.

"Let's find him," Tasana said. The human took a steadying breath, released Wirsankor's ruff, and began to follow the blood trail, her face pale with fear. Like Roliran, the woods woman understood the probable outcome of their battle, but wished she could deny it. As she found more blood, the trail became even more obvious. Gonaki had begun to weave clumsily through the burnt remains of the dead underbrush, leaving footprints in windswept piles of wet ash. At last, several yards from where his brother and the mutated Warg lay, the healer and her followers discovered their Sekrahc where he had collapsed on his side, breathing shallowly.

"Chev'yahna." The black alpha's lips pulled back slightly in a smile as she knelt next to him.

"Twenty-three years and not a single thing has changed, old friend." She bound the wound tightly with her cloak. "Now I imagine you wish you hadn't soaked this through."

"Wet then or wet now. It doesn't matter." His movements were slow, tired. Lids drooped over golden eyes.

"Sleep. We'll get you fixed up here, 'Naki. The rest of us could use a chance to lick our wounds as well." She stroked his fur, feeling a faint tremble where her hand touched.

"Die now or die later. Doesn't matter," he growled softly, as if at some figure in a nightmare.

"Yes it does. Your pups need you. We'll stay as long as we have to." The big black tail gave a single half-hearted thump against the ground, and the alpha spoke no more.

Tasana had to place her head against the furry chest, but she could faintly discern a slow, muted heartbeat. Roliran looked questioningly at her as she leaned against his father's side, tears running through the ash upon her face. "I don't know. I can't handle this again. Must I always sit by the dying?"

"You can heal them," the beta told her bluntly. "I can hunt." He turned away, following as the strange yearling led the brothers to better hunting grounds. Part of the woods woman wished she could join them, but Roliran did have a point. She had the skills – and the hands – to deal with a crisis as none of her pack mates could. It was up to her, and she could not let them down.

_The sooner Gonaki is ready to travel, the sooner we can return home to Boromir,_ she told herself. The woman would not let other alternatives take root in her mind. Gonaki had overcome injuries before, and at this point, Boromir would likely be trying to walk the rest of the way home. Thinking of her proud lover marching up to the gates of the white city with a pack of wolves nannying him brought a half-smile to her face. His fever would have broken by now. It would have had to. And yet, Tasana was not yet willing to leave her lover entirely to the mercy of his own mental state.

_I can't do this_, she thought again, gathering what few herbs she had left with her, _but I will_. Boromir would survive long enough for her to stabilize her alpha's condition and assemble a stretcher. They would have to drag Gonaki's weight, which would be no easy task, but with a slow pace and plenty of rotations, Tasana, Wirsankor, and Roliran could bring their alpha home alive.

Chev'yahna considered her options. Straight, sturdy saplings and a hide or cloth would work the best, but there was precious little standing wood left in the blackened forest, and what was left would hardly serve her purpose. The secondary option would not please Roliran and Wirsankor. Bone and sinew could be cobbled together into a relatively mobile cradle, but given their uncle's treachery, the wolves would likely have preferred to donate their own bodies than allow Sahnchanc's to be turned into their father's only source of transportation.

When Tasana had first encountered the funeral methods of Wargs, she had been thoroughly sickened. Their insistence on the deceased serving a purpose as the living did have its philosophical charm, but the practice almost made the human wish to be an outcast. The greatest insult one could give the Wargish dead would be to chase off the scavengers until the corpse was bloated and disease-ridden. To honor a fallen pack member, the survivors tore the body to shreds. Sekras ate of the brain, crunching bone and lapping up blood. Much of the rest was left for the ravens, although other close relatives of the dead wolf would steal pieces from the body to eat themselves. Tasana supposed her pack members had an equal right to be horrified at the idea of preserving a body, but there were some customs of the wolves that not even twenty years could ameliorate.

But for once, custom might work in her favor. She could butcher an animal, and right now, that was all Sahnchanc and his son were: dead animals, the spoils of the hunt. She regretted this; afraid of what this worldview made her, but there would be little time for guilt right now. A maddened traitor had been put down, and her alpha and her lover needed her. There was butchering to be done, so that her pack might eat.

As Tasana slid her knife into the ruined silver pelt and dragged it through, the strange young brown wolf retreated from her and the brothers, returning with all speed to its master.

* * *

When Sam first heard the noise, he automatically checked the sky overhead. Dark clouds scudded above the trees, but the threat of rain was not serious. Yet the thunder had not stopped, nor even slackened. The hobbit's eyes drifted to a swaying branch. Following it down, Sam realized the whole tree was shaking from the force of the rumblings.

Ragged breathing and the crackle of leaves heralded Gollum's retreat. Samwise stood quickly, upsetting his stew. Although he knew he should be more worried about what could have caused the commotion, it was their guide's response that had angered him. Sam tore after the frog-faced creature, vowing vengeance. Behind him, the rumble increased, and heavy footsteps could be discerned amongst the horn and bellows that added the overtones of thunder.

Frodo seemed oblivious to the noise, eating his bowl of stew quietly while the army approached. Sam hated to tear him away from such a peaceful moment, but there was little help for it. The younger hobbit disliked the selfishness of Gollum's sudden departure, but could not deny the wisdom of it. "Mr. Frodo, come on. We've gotta leave here," Sam said, doubling back for his best friend.

"What's wrong, Sam?" the elder hobbit asked, setting down his bowl.

"I don't rightly know, but we'd best find out from a place of safety, now, shouldn't we?" The larger hobbit grabbed Frodo's hand, pulling him away from the cookfire. The source of the rumblings approached, trampling through the forest just beyond the abandoned remains of their campsite.

_Soldiers,_ Frodo noted, a fully equipped army. There were more men there than the hobbit had seen in a very long time. All those weapons made it seem as if the army were even bigger than it actually was. And the sheer number of men was the least of the amazments that this disturbance had to offer. Beside Frodo in the heavy brush, Sam sat with a dropped jaw. Oliphants! Frodo had thought them mere figments of his old Uncle Bilbo's fancy. Were he less detached from his surroundings and less concerned about what else might spot them in the forest, Frodo supposed he too would be awed at the sight. As it was, the hobbit's subconscious noted the potential threat, and allowed him to continue scanning the forest. It was not men or beasts that frightened him, not with Sauron watching him. Hooded black shapes were coming for him.

_There._ No, perhaps not. Perhaps it was only the wind, or the thunder of the army. Sam's amazed, unmoving presence at his side was comforting, a counterpoint to the shaking, suddenly all-too-crowded forest. Gollum had disappeared into the trees ahead and above of them, and Frodo's sense of direction had fled with the guide. The foreign army seemed to be all around them. And within their ranks, who knows what more sinister dangers might be lurking?

The Nazgul had supposedly died on the river, just outside Rivendell. But Frodo had never truly believed it. The nightmare creature on the river, which the scouts had tried so hard not to mention, was no fever-dream, no matter how much they all might have wished that it was. The black riders were still out there, and they were coming for him. They were coming for the Ring and its bearer.

Yes, these soldiers could prove a threat to the hobbits if Sam and Frodo moved too incautiously around them. They were armed, dangerous, and hostile, but they were not looking for a pair of small wanderers with the most unlikely weapon imaginable. Only the Nazgul were, at this point. And Sauron's greatest trackers hunted the hobbits exclusively.

Another half-glimpsed shadow interrupted Frodo's thoughts, and then all hell broke loose. Arrows sped from unseen bows, wreaking havoc amongst the massed troops. The foreign army bunched and faltered, swarming over one another like ants from a disturbed nest. The panicked oliphants caused more damage amongst their own troops than the arrows had, crushing men underfoot in their fear. Another volley brought one of the creatures stumbling to its knees, knocking over the oversized basket it carried upon its back. Its contents, including not a few men, tumbled violently onto the battlefield. Another oliphant charged out of control, careening off into the deep woods.

A few of the surviving soldiers made some attempt to organize themselves, drawing bows and standing away from the two remaining live oliphants in sight. Unfortunately for them, the arrows were coming from every direction. One man shot wildly into the trees, but there was no drop of a body, nor cry of pain. Then the unseen archers picked their next target. The clump of gathered men dropped, one by one.

"It's a pity, if you ask me." Sam's whispered comment startled his companion. "I know they're the enemy, but to see so many men dropped like that, as if they were shootin' flies, well, it breaks my heart. They might well have fathers or mothers or sisters waitin' for them back home. Who knows? And seeing that great beast of legend go down? Never thought I'd see an oliphant." The younger hobbit shook his head, bemused and troubled. "It's easier fighting orcs. I can hate them. But after you've met a good man or two, it's right hard to see the bad ones."

"It is," Frodo agreed quietly, placing a pale hand upon his friend's shoulder. "But we'd best keep quiet, Sam. This fight's not over."

It was close to being over, though. The remaining soldiers had scattered, running from the death trap and headed in all directions. Once or twice Frodo had stiffened in fear as a panicked soldier came too close to their hiding place. The last time, the man had actually come face to face with the hobbits. They stared at their unwelcome visitor with twin expressions of horror. The man, however, had not seen them. Those sightless eyes would not see anything, nor could that voiceless mouth reveal the hobbits' location. An arrow stood unbroken, deeply impaled in his back.

Frodo did not hear the sudden hush upon the battlefield. His brain was filled with the screams of his best friend, and as always, the screeches of the Nazgul. His eyes were on the newly dead in front of him and the unseen terrors of his mind, so he did not see the cloaked form steal down from the trees. Only when the being grabbed him and Sam from behind did Frodo realize that while soldiers would grant him a quicker death than the Nazgul would, he would still be dead. The dark, hooded head looked over them once, and then called out into the forest: "Captain! You'd better come see these."

More shadows in the trees transformed themselves into hooded figures. Sam and Frodo were surrounded. There was no chance of escape now.


	33. Hope and Despair

A/N: It belongs to Tolkien. Enough said. I'll be editing previous chapters as I can, but it may be a long time coming. I'm not ignoring the advice I get; I just have lots of places to improve. I know it's a Sue, but I've promised myself that I'm not going to be the typical Suethor. You want someone to bite back at you for criticism, go lure trolls onto Deleterius. I appreciate snark.

* * *

The ride to Helm's Deep had not been easy. Families with small children in tow forced their pace to a crawl, and more than one civilian had fought bitterly to keep some heavy, treasured heirloom upon his person, even though this only slowed the caravan further. After the run that taken them what felt like half the country in a matter of days, this snail's pace was worryingly slow to Aragorn and his companions. Still, the family groups and necessity of keeping the little ones' spirits up gave the journey almost a holiday air, if one could ignore the guards that rode in and out of the group, and the old swords and pikes that made up the majority of the "treasured heirlooms" making their way to the fortress.

Gimli told stories of his father's adventures as a pair of redheaded children gasped in encouragement. It was probably just as well that Legolas had ridden ahead to scout, leaving the dwarf to walk alongside the carts for the hour. The elf would likely be outrageously embarrassed by the dwarf's anecdote concerning how much certain Mirkwood prison guards had drunk, allowing the heroes of the tale to escape. The mother of Gimli's intended audience was not the only one who looked thankfully upon the impromptu storyteller; Lady Eowyn seemed nearly as entranced by the tale as the children.

"Forced to escape from elves? I've heard stories about the witch in the wood, but surely they cannot all be terrible, if you travel with one," she spoke wonderingly to Aragorn. There was a questioning, shyly curious look to her eyes, but the ranger did not think it had to do entirely with the subject of race relations.

"Don't let his stories fool you. I've seen few friends more loyal to one another than Gimli and Legolas, and the dwarves have more to quarrel about with the Firstborn than we ever did. And a wise man would watch his tongue concerning Lady Galadriel about Gimli. He may well let you get away with such things, but I've seen him challenge a pack of armed men for some imagined insult to her honor." Strider held his mount to a steady pace as the blonde woman brought her horse closer to his, but part of him longed to ride out faster now.

She smiled, looking back towards the dwarf and his questioning audience. "So what are your feelings on elves, my lord?" Eowyn asked.

"I was raised by them," he admitted, looking down into his horse's mane. Strider fiddled with an unseen item in his pocket. "After my father died, my mother brought me to Rivendell, where Elrond and his sons took me in and taught me my history. I owe much to them, and to Master Legolas, who took me hunting sometimes as a child."

Eowyn rose in her saddle, peering out towards where Legolas had gone scouting. "Amazing how they never show their age."

"Eighty-seven years and I've seen little change in him," Aragorn agreed, nodding in the elf's direction. His riding companion looked impressed.

"Eighty-seven? Why, here is another one who does not show his age!" the lady smiled gently. Her eyes sparkled out here in the sunlight, giving her a much livelier look than she displayed in her uncle's court.

"Being a Dunedain ranger is not entirely without benefits," Strider said, continuing to look outwards. He ought to keep his mind on the road, watching for threats and slow-moving travelers.

"A Numenorean heritage is something that any man could take pride in," Eowyn said firmly. "I wouldn't mind finding a Numenorean husband, myself."

Aragorn finally composed himself, looking into her eyes. "He will be a lucky man." The ranger kicked his horse, riding off before she had the chance to respond. Eowyn looked taken aback. She glanced wonderingly towards an equally befuddled Gimli before riding after Aragorn with a determined expression.

"Have I offended you somehow, sir?" She trotted her mare slightly behind his gelding, unsure what to make of his sudden cold shoulder. He did not answer in words, but as Eowyn rode closer, she could see his hand tightening around some small, shining object. "I'm sorry, Lord Aragorn, I didn't realize…" She reached to touch his shoulder, though he continued to look away. "Who was she?" the blonde woman asked softly.

"An elf. I don't know if I'll ever see her again." Aragorn struggled to remaster his emotions. "I ought to go with the scouts. You'd best stay here and help Gimli with the stragglers."

Eowyn did her best not to fume as the strange man rode away. She had only been trying to make conversation, after all. There had been no need for him to run away from her or shoot orders at her. She hadn't meant any harm, but once again, she had somehow unthinkingly stepped outside the bounds of civility.

Eowyn hated her cage of social gentility. She could be more diplomatic than her brother had ever been, should the occasion require it, but the lady of Rohan resented her inability to speak her mind freely, as Eomer did. By custom, circumstance, and history, it was up to her to support her uncle's rule, which had been all too unsteady of late, while Eomer and Theodred defended the plains. Nevertheless, Eowyn did not lack a sword, even upon this journey. She thirsted for a chance to use it, to prove herself equal to the lessons her cousin and brother had taught her. Surely riding out against the enemy was a more fitting tribute to Theodred's memory than hiding in a cave with those made helpless by youth, age, or lack of training. Yet she must continue in this caravan, and "guard" the caverns of Helm's Deep, if she was to please her uncle. If only for him, Eowyn would do this.

But what was the story behind this strange dark traveler, she wondered to herself. The Rohirric woman could not deny that he had captured her attention. Men could be frustrating at times, and this one was no exception, but Aragorn had also shown her kindness during her uncle's council meetings. He had listened to her when she had volunteered to ride after her brother, and Eowyn had dared to hope that the ranger had taken her seriously. It was a rare man who did, of late, between the spell of weakness that Wormtongue had cast over her uncle, the necessity for the people – and soon, her kinsmen's lives, thanks to that snake of an advisor, - that Eomer and Theodred remain in the plains, and her own moments of helpless, debilitating fear of being left alone and useless at her uncle's side, unable to halt his sickness or save their country. If there were some way to raise this stranger's spirits, so that he might smile upon her again, the blonde woman would try to do it. It was an odd feeling, these days, to be respected. Eowyn never wanted it to stop.

Biting her tongue, Eowyn turned back to the caravan.

* * *

He was ready. Boromir could walk for nearly the whole day without feeling exhausted, and he had gathered his belongings, or what was left of them. Too much, like his sword, his horn, (he still had not found the other pieces of the bell, and was beginning to fear that they had been lost in the river,) and his mind, had been broken: scattered and recollected as best he could. Supplies, outside of what meat the Wargs had provided, were fairly low. Tasana had not had time to prepare much dried food for him. Still, he could ignore his cracked ribs and hunt and gather for himself, if need be. _With a broken sword in orc-infested territory, _he reminded himself unnecessarily. This plan of his was mad, but Boromir would not be content to sit in the wilds when so many needed him. Half-healed ribs aside, there were more important tasks he could be fulfilling right now than acting as a combination of nanny and chew toy for a bunch of puppies. 

The biggest of the litter had crawled towards the opening yesterday, and Boromir had taken it as a sign that he, too, should be turning back to the light outside the den. He had picked the pup up and returned it to its mother before standing, but the little one had not taken to a teat, instead crawling after the man again as he started towards the mouth of the cave. When it did so again this morning, Mithilira had nosed the pup after him. "Name her, Boromir," the Warg had told him.

The captian-general picked up the little tagalong, carrying her outside. The pup blinked her half-blind eyes at the sudden rush of sunlight, and Boromir found himself doing the same. He raised the young wolf to eye level, considering her as she wrinkled her nose at the new scents. She was small enough that he could wrap his hands about her ribcage without too much trouble, but holding an active puppy this way began to strain his arms after a few minutes. Boromir wondered if he would still be strong enough to use his old sword, even if it had remained whole.

The Gondorian had never accounted himself a creative namer. The mare he had ridden to Rivendell had simply been called Wind for her fleetness of foot, and his favorite dog as a boy had been called Huan, which Faramir had informed him translated as "hound," besides being the name of the wolfhound of legends. He supposed he had picked up the trait from his father, as Boromir, son of Denethor, grandson of Ecthelion was not the first by that name in his line. His namesake's father had been a Denethor, as well, as the captain-general recalled. But the alpha female had granted him the honor of naming the pup, so he felt he ought to make it a good one. "Initiative," he muttered, having no idea of the elvish or Wargish alternatives. "You took it, and you gave it to me. I'll call you Hope, then. It's as good a name as any." He adjusted his grip so as to better control the young wolf's wrigglings.

"Ecstel." The Wargish, when sounded by Valenska, reminded him unconsciously of the elvish word from which it had been derived.

"No, that's one of Aragorn's names." Boromir shook his head. "Wouldn't want to curse her with that." He stroked the pup with a finger, which she snapped at playfully, wagging her tail when she caught the Gondorian's finger between her sharp little teeth. He grimaced, and the Warg pup sniffed at his strange expression, licking blood from his hand. "Though from the way you treat me, pup, one would think you want to be cursed."

The black female let her tongue loll in a smile, and the man raised an eyebrow as her tail started wagging uncontrolably. Valenska derived altogether too much good humor from these pups, Boromir decided.

"Paskta'ecsteli, then. Cursed Hope." It was not the voice of the yearling that replied to him.

"A fine name." If Boromir had had a tail, his would have been wagging, too.

The black wolf was in poor shape, and his gurney smelled of bloody, decaying bones. The smaller Warg accompanying him was dragging the homemade stretcher by means of a long strip of fur looped about his chest and tied to two long femurs. Gonaki could barely raise his head from the bed, but his elder daughter moved quickly to greet him and her brothers. Boromir left Valenska to her greetings, for he had his own to make.

Chev'yahna looked tired, half-beaten. Her clothes were covered in mud, ash, and blood, but little of it appeared to be her own. The scratches, cuts, and bite marks about her arms and legs were minimal, and her bruises were more yellowed than purple, though there was an unnerving ring of teeth marks at the base of her neck. Boromir was determined to check all of them. He was no healer, but the soldier at least knew when it was best to take some action concerning a wound. And in Boromir's opinion, any of Tasana's wounds were reason to worry.

The woodswoman took the pup, cradling it gently. "I missed you." He put his arms about her, running his fingers lightly over the circle of scars centered on her spine.

"I'm simply thankful to still be breathing," she said, resting her head against him and examining his own scars with her free hand.

"Is that all you're grateful for?" he asked. Boromir's thoughts wandered back to his gathered supplies. He would have to get more than he had originally planned if she was to accompany him back to Minas Tirith, but it would be a welcome chore.

"Hardly. Gonaki has made it this far, when we feared that he would not be breathing long enough to reach the den. The rest of us suffered minimal injuries, we know the threat we face to the southeast better, if not the numbers quite yet, and the new litter seems to be growing nicely." The woman scratched the puppy in her arms behind its oversized flopping ears. "You look well," she added shyly, as if it were an afterthought, though a not-quite-hidden smile suggested otherwise.

"I feel better than I did without you," Boromir acknowledged. The young Warg wriggled in the woman's arms, and the wounded alpha grumbled from his rough-hewn stretcher, calling them back to reality before things could progress any further.

"I need to find more herbs," Tasana said, handing the pup back to the warrior. "Give me time to get settled, and then I shall try to give you a more proper greeting, my lord." A thin, callused finger ran from the young she-wolf's back to Boromir's arm, and the healer leaned in to kiss her lover softly upon the nose. With that, Tasana was off, leaving as noiselessly as she had appeared.

"Well, little one," Boromir murmured to the puppy, "It seems we all have things we must prepare for." The Gondorian returned the Warg pup to the den, hardly even caring when she and her littermates attempted to gnaw on his fingers. He had supplies to pack, and other pleasures to look forward to, as well. Boromir was at last beginning to feel at home.

* * *

Glossary:

Ecstel: Hope

Paskta: to curse, cursed


End file.
